


Kyle's Marvelous Gluteus

by Tandem_Constable



Category: South Park
Genre: Bebe is thirtsy, Biromantic Kyle, Crack, Family Disfunction, Genderfluid Character, Multi, Not Beta Read, Slow Build, Then Everything Comes Crashing Down, We Die Like Men, asexual kyle, booty-crack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:41:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 39,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25324084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tandem_Constable/pseuds/Tandem_Constable
Summary: Stan is exhausted. Cartman keeps saying he's different now. Kyle is twelve billion dollars in debt.Also, everyone is suddenly obsessed, and the consensus is: Kyle's buns be poppin'.
Relationships: Kyle Broflovski/Eric Cartman, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Stan Marsh/Wendy Testaburger
Comments: 14
Kudos: 58





	1. Bebe's Magnificent Thirst

**Author's Note:**

> This piece is crack. It's based on that old running joke about Kyle having a "great ass". So, I ramped it up and rolled with it. ;

Stan Marsh was dead, or at the very least he felt like it. He stretched his arms over his head with a groan and blinked sleepily. He had wanted a fresh start to his senior year, but his dad had had other plans for him. He had decided over the summer that Stan was old enough to take on some _real_ responsibility on the family pot farm, which meant staying up most of the night with a cocked shot-gun and waiting for vandals that, very inconsiderately, never showed.

“Dude, you look like death warmed over,” snorted Kyle Broflovski, his best friend. “Like shit falling off a stick.”

“Thanks,” Stan muttered tiredly, swaying.

“It’s true though,” Kyle chuckled, catching him by the elbow.

“No-one,” Stan yawned, “thinks you’re funny, Kyle.”

“I think I’m funny.” Stan shook his head, but he couldn’t help but smile, just a little.

Kyle shrugged, glancing down at a scrap of paper in his hand. He looked back up, scanning the lockers. Spotting what he was looking for, he jogged about two yards down the hall and slapped one of the faded green lockers. “I found mine first!” He grinned widely in victory. Stan just slumped on the locker next to his, yawning once more.

He felt Kyle’s cold fingers press against his forehead. He blinked tiredly. Kyle frowned. Stan caught movement over Kyle’s shoulder, and it took all of his energy to track the rotund form with his bleary eyes. Eric Cartman, technically one of their friends, sauntered up. “Wow, you look like shit, Hippie-boy,” he taunted, his voice an incredibly upsetting thing to hear so early in the morning.

Kyle huffed and shoved him with his elbow, not very hard, but hard enough to make him stumble back a step. “Like you look any better,” he grumbled. Cartman grinned.

“Please, you know I’m hot, Kyehl.” Stan, personally, wouldn’t necessarily describe the likes of Eric Cartman as ‘hot’. Cartman only stood at five foot six inches but had to weigh well over two hundred fifty pounds. It was hard to tell whether his chins constituted as a neck, and he tended to look at least mildly damp most of the time. Yet, he grinned like he was an underwear model in a Calvin Klein ad.

Kyle rolled his eyes and hummed noncommittally, “Mhm, so hot, my popsicle’s melting.” Stan, feeling quite foolish once his brain caught up to him, actually looked for the aforementioned popsicle.

“Yo! I haven’t heard that song in years!” Stan’s shoulder shouted. No— Stan’s fuzzy head spun— not his shoulder, someone over his shoulder. He glanced up, Kenny McCormick. Growing up, Kenny had always worn a parka over his face, making muffled speech be more expected from him, but, as Stan blearily remembered, he had sent them all a group text the night before saying that he had decided that he was going to start out his last year with a fresh face— namely his old face, only exposed and out there for the world to see and to cherish. Stan cherished him.

“Ike recently ‘discovered’ the early 2000s.” Kyle sounded about as tired as Stan felt. He could relate. Even though _he_ didn’t have a little brother who had recently discovered the music of the early 2000s, he could still relate to his friend’s pain. Super Best Friends could always relate to each other’s pain.

“Weak,” Cartman chortled,“Your brother’s been listening to Katy Perry?”

“Katy Perry’s not that bad,” Kyle defended boredly.

“Whatever you say, Kyehl.” Cartman flicked Kyle’s cheek.

“You listened to her when we were kids!” Kyle rubbed angrily at his cheek and shoved Cartman back, though not hard enough to actually affect him.

“Maybe, but I’m a man now, Kyehl.” Cartman pushed himself into Kyle’s bubble. “I listen to man music.” Kyle just sighed and turned to fiddle with his lock, just to practice the combination as the locker was already open. He spun it around and back around and around again with a dizzying speed that made Stan feel ill. Cartman frowned and grabbed Kyle’s wrist, stilling his movement. Kyle twitched.

Kenny plopped himself between the two of them. “Does anyone have History first period? Please tell me I don’t have to go alone,” he moaned casually, stretching his arms over his head.

“No can do, Kenny,” Cartman pulled his hand back and nonchalantly rubbed his nails on his coat, “I don’t have first period.”

“Then why are you here?” Kyle grumbled, slamming his empty locker, making Stan jump.

“Can’t a man wanna send his friends off on the first day of the school year?”

“Sure, but—,”

“What do you have, Stan?” Kenny asked, throwing an arm over Kyle’s shoulder, peering at Stan over his head.

“I have…” Stan pulled his schedule out of his pocket, too tired to remember what had been written on it. He stared blankly at the piece of paper in his hand, his brain taking a moment to turn on. “Algebra 2?” He did if he was reading it right. He shrugged, stowing the paper away; he’d find out if that was the right class soon enough.

“Lame!” Kenny crooned. “What about you?” He shook Kyle gently.

“Oh,” Kyle shrugged, “I don’t have first period either.”

“What the Hell, Kyehl?” Cartman threw his hands up in the air. “What the fuck are _you_ doing here then?”

“I wanted a quiet place to read.” Kyle crossed his arms and continued under his breath, “My dad’s been driving me nuts.”

“I’m sorry, Kyehl,” Cartman cleared his throat, “could you repeat that? I only caught the part about your nuts?”

“God, you’re such a pervert, Cartman.” Kyle shoved off from his locker and gestured at Stan to follow him. “Come on Stan, you don’t want to be late.” Stan groggily shuffled after him. Kenny grabbed onto his arm, and it wasn’t hard for Stan, even as exhausted as he was, to tell that he was trying to hold him steady. He mumbled a thanks, but he wasn’t certain if Kenny had heard. He didn’t respond. He had fluffy hair, Stan noticed vacantly, kind of like a duck. Stan grinned.

“I am not!” Cartman shouted, stomping after them. “You’re the one talking about your nuts in the middle of the hall, Asshole!”

“Except I wasn’t!” Kyle sang back over his shoulder. Stan pretty much checked out of the conversation at that point. He just couldn’t bring himself to care about their daily squabble, and Kyle had just walked past an absolutely stunning beauty. That beauty went by the name of Wendy Testaburger, and as he watched her twirl a strand of raven hair on her finger, he took a moment to bask in how blessed he was to call her his girlfriend. He grinned loonily and detached himself from his orange-clad friend.

As he approached her, he noticed her friend, Bebe Stevens, whisper something in her ear. Wendy’s face scrunched up, and it was very cute when it did that— like a bunny out for justice— and she whispered something, probably reprimanding if Bebe’s face was anything to go by, back. Bebe just laughed, patted her on the shoulder, and sauntered into the classroom door beside them.

“Hey, Wends.” Stan lurched at her, and slammed his hand on the locker beside her head. She jumped. “Why’re you looking so down?” He coughed and pulled back a bit, still supporting himself against the peeling locker paint.

Wendy sighed. Stan didn’t like when she sighed, but he still thought it sounded very pretty when she did it. “It’s nothing, Bebe’s just being gross, as usual.” She rolled her eyes. “Honestly, she thinks _just_ because someone’s a _guy_ , suddenly it’s okay to _objectify_ them!” She smacked his arm for emphasis. “And it’s not!”

“Wow, that really sucks.” He hadn’t really taken in a word she said, having had been too preoccupied trying to hold back a yawn. He didn’t want her to think he was bored of her; he was really happy to see her, and her pretty hair, and her rosy cheeks, and her lovely indignant eyes.

“It does!” She plopped her head on his shoulder. “If a _guy_ said that—,” She was quiet for a moment. Stan didn’t dare move. She shook her head and sighed. “Thank you, Stan.”

“For what?” He wrapped his arms around her.

“Just,” she breathed out, “for caring, and listening.”

“Oh.”

“Hey,” Kenny plopped his head on Stan’s shoulder, the one Wendy’s head wasn’t on, and wrapped his arms around Stan’s middle, “sorry to break you two love birds up, but we’ve gotta get Mr. Sleepyhead here to class.” He ruffled Stan’s hair. Stan yawned.

“Alright.” Wendy pressed a kiss to his cheek and passed him off to Kenny. “Take care of him, McCormick.”

Kenny saluted her with a wink. “You know I will, baby!”

“Don’t flirt with my girlfriend,” Stan grumbled. Kenny just laughed and thumped him on the back.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<+>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

“Kyehl.”

Kyle didn’t respond when Cartman approached him. He was too engrossed in whatever it was he was scrolling through on the library desktop. Cartman pulled out the chair beside him and plopped down in it. “That doesn’t look like reading to me,” he said, folding his arms over the desktop and plopping his cheek down on top. He rolled his face over, so his cheek was mushed up by his arm, and blinked up at Kyle, who continued to ignore him, scribbling down a number from the monitor.

Cartman watched in silence for a few moments, not really having anything better to do, or anywhere he really needed to be. He had, after all, only shown up this early in the first place because he had known Kyle would have an off period. Kyle had slowly grown more apathetic towards him over the summer, still passing insults back and forth with him, but with less bite, as if he was simply remembering the motions. Cartman had resolved to use the extra time, away from the other guys, to resolve this rift between them. Kyle, of course, wasn’t to know that.

Kyle grumbled something under his breath (his rumbling frustration coursing through the blood in Cartman’s chest) and erased whatever he had just written with irritated fervor. Cartman felt almost transfixed watching him brush away the eraser dust with three brisk flicks. His hands were more slender than he remembered them to be. There on his right-hand middle finger was a thick black ring that screamed back off. It only made his heart ache more. He glanced back at Kyle’s face. There was something striking about the downward curve of his brow, about how his still surprisingly soft jaw twitched as he clenched and unclenched his teeth.

“Would you knock it off?” Kyle growled, snapping his pencil down. Cartman grinned lazily. He hadn’t even had to do anything, just like how it was supposed to be.

“I’m not doing anything,” he hummed innocently. He nuzzled his own arm, really leaning into the innocent and guilt-free angle.

“You _staring_ at me!”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are!” Kyle hissed back, focusing on maintaining his volume. He looked particularly irritable, but not towards Cartman. His eyes when he looked directly at him were only lukewarm at best, distracted. Cartman frowned.

“What’re you doing?” Cartman pointed at the computer screen, which was angled away from him, then gestured to Kyle’s notepad, covered in meticulously crossed out numbers and angrily scribbled labels.

Kyle propped his chin in the palm of his and shifted his seat to face Cartman. He stared at him for a beat of silence, his lids lowered and tired. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” There was no bite to the statement. It was merely information. Cartman opened his mouth to protest, but Kyle silenced him with a threadbare smile. “And don’t claim any of that, ‘because we’re friends’ bullshit because we’re not.”

“I haven’t tried to kill you in like,” Cartman quickly counted on his fingers, “four years! Four years, Kyehl!”

“That doesn’t make us friends, though.”

“Come on!” Cartman whined. “It should count for something!”

Something flickered behind Kyle’s green eyes, something akin to amusement. Cartman was certain of it. He just sighed, however, and turned back to the computer. His delicate fingertips danced over the keyboard, furiously typing in rapid keystrokes. “I’m trying to figure out how I can rent a place.”

Cartman sat up.

“Really?” He leaned closer, making an open display of his interest. Kyle glanced at him. He hesitated and flicked his eyes back to the screen.

“Yes.” He drummed his fingers lightly on the keyboard, soft enough not to impress any off the keys. “The moment I turn eighteen, I’m moving out.”

Cartman snorted. “Really getting a jumpstart on life, aren’t ya? I bet you’ve already applied to like Yale or Harvard or whatever, too.”

“I have,” he shrugged and peered at Cartman out the sides of his eyes, “but that’s not what this is about.” He bit his lip, “I’m not going to Yale, or Harvard, or any of the schools I applied to.” His brows furrowed, and he muttered something under his breath again. He shook his head, an auburn curl flopping against his cheek, and picked his pencil back up, shifting his attention away from Eric Cartman.

“You seem stressed.”

He placed his hand over Kyle’s. The scratching of his pencil stilled. Kyle’s entire body stiffened, and his breath hitched to a stop. He considered, briefly, pulling his hand back, but instead he worked the pencil from Kyle’s grip. He leaned forward, close enough to smell Kyle’s minty breath, and tucked the pencil behind his ear. Kyle’s eyes followed his hand, and he shuddered when Cartman’s fingers lingered in his hair.

“Don’t touch me.” He didn’t sound angry, just tired.

Cartman scrunched his fists under the table, watching peaceably as Kyle slid the pencil out from behind his ear and leaned back in his chair. He balanced the pencil on his middle finger and stared at it as he breathed in deeply. “My dad has been a major… dick lately.” He flipped the pencil into his grip and stared off, over the computer and up until his eyes met where the ceiling and wall intersected. Cartman waited silently, not daring to miss out on rare insight on, the less than forthcoming, Kyle Broflovski. They hadn’t really, _really_ , spoken in a while.

“Like,” Kyle threw his hands up in frustration. “The year hasn’t even started yet, and he’s already hounding me about my grades! Because, you know, I have such a _history_ of not being able to keep them up.” He crossed his arms with a sarcastic huff. “And my breakfast! Good GOD!” He ranted, “He was nitpicking my freaking breakfast! And it’s not like he even had a point either! He just has some crick in his neck so he thinks he has to go out of his way to be and absolute bas—!”

“Shush.” The librarian leaned over his computer with disdain, a finger held to her lips. Kyle turned red, nearly as red as his impossibly brilliant hair, and stared down at his lap.

“Sorry ma’am…” Kyle muttered. Cartman laughed and found himself leveled with a glare.

“Sorry, Kyehl,” he snickered insincerely. He took a moment to calm down from his amusement and looked at Kyle with a softer expression. “And I’m actually sorry about your dad, dude.”

“Whatever.” Kyle rolled his eyes and turned his attention once more to the computer. Cartman frowned, annoyed at being dismissed, ever constantly dismissed by the red-head. His eyes flicked down to the paper Kyle was scribbling on. Not much of it made any sense to him, but he could tell that Kyle was struggling to make the numbers work together, and they were huge numbers, in the billions, the trillions even, too many zeroes.

Kyle tsked under his breath. He crumpled up his paper and shoved it to the corner of the desk, on top of a small pile of other crumpled papers. He neatly wrote ~12,000,000,000,000 on the top of the page and set down his pencil. He rubbed at his temples and added a brief notation beneath, working with very small numbers. He slammed the pencil down and buried his face in his arms with a growl.

“Maybe,” Cartman prodded him, “this would be easier if you weren’t looking for a place that costs trillions of dollars. Not even Token lives in a place like that.”

“I’m _not_ that big of a _fucking_ IDIOT!”

“SHUSH!” The librarian glared at him from across the room.

“SORRY!” Kyle slammed his hands on the table and breathed in deeply. He exhaled heavily and began again, with a hiss, “I’m trillions of dollars in debt.”

“You what? I didn’t think jews could go in debt.”

“In fourth grade I took out a credit card to pay everyone’s debt.” Kyle spread his fingers across the tabletop and stared at them. Cartman followed his gaze. His pinky twitched. “So now their debt is mine.”

“Kyehl, this is what happens when you go around trying to be everyone’s martyr.” Kyle’s fingers curled. “And you’re making this into more of a problem than it needs to be. Just declare bankruptcy.”

“Just declare— I can’t do that!”

“Why not?”

“Because then the _banks_ would have to declare bankruptcy, and the economy would _crash_ again! And then there would have been no _point_ in doing it in the first place!” He grasped Cartman’s shoulders desperately, his eyes blazing with terror. “And then everything will turn into Margaritaville margarita machines again, and I don’t think you want that!”

“That… doesn’t make sense, Kyehl.” Cartman blinked. Kyle released him. His shoulders felt cold. Kyle stared at him before breaking into a grin. It had dawned on him awhile ago, and he wasn’t entirely certain when exactly it had come to be true, but Kyle was breathtaking, even just in these small moments.

“Your face doesn’t make sense.”

“Great comeback.”

Kyle grinned. “Thanks.” He straightened his papers and tucked them into his bag, even the crumpled pile of failure. “I’m really funny you know.” He closed out his window and logged off. All packed up and ready to go once the computer was finished logging out, he turned to look at Cartman again, his lips quirked up, but his eyes tired, not that it mattered if they were tired, so long as they were on him.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<+>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

He had gym at the end of the day. Technically seniors weren’t required to take gym, but Cartman’s mom had decided it would be good for him and had insisted; suddenly, she seemed to care about his health. He had considered ditching, but the guys would be there. Stan had eagerly signed up, excited by any excuse to run around like a dog, and Kyle had reluctantly signed up as well after being assaulted with Stan’s woeful begging routine. Kenny hadn’t had a choice. He had skipped the class the entire year last year and had to make up the credit if he wanted to graduate. So Cartman would bother to show up too, in solidarity with the guys.

He was a good friend like that.

He trudged down the hall toward the locker room, not looking forward to the experience, even if he had technically already resigned himself to it. He saw Stan and Kyle up ahead, Kyle hunched awkwardly to keep Stan upright. He snickered and leaned against one of the lockers to watch to two of them struggle. He’d have to hurry once they went in, so he could snatch a locker next to theirs, but for now he had the time to kick back and watch.

Kyle shoved Stan up so he could stand straight, stumbling because he was drastically shorter than his friend, and tipped him too far over. Stan plummeted and smashed into a vending machine. Stan groaned. Cartman laughed. Kyle scrambled forward and tossed his backpack to the side. He leaned forward, planting his feet firmly on either side of Stan’s legs, and braced himself with hands outstretched.

A feminine voice groaned softly in his ear. Cartman whipped his head to the side, shocked to see Bebe Stevens standing so close to him, her eyes misty and transfixed so assuredly ahead that it was clear she hadn’t even realized he was there. To look at her, one would think she was being actively tortured, from the torment marring her features. “What I wouldn’t give,” she muttered lowly, “to get me a piece of that.”

Cartman followed her gaze. Kyle was pulling Stan to his feet, panting from the exertion. It was clear that Stan was being anything but helpful. Cartman squinted at Bebe. She bit her lip.

“What the fuck are you on?”

She jumped with a squeak, but she quickly settled herself. Her eyes drank him in, and she turned away. “That juicy snacc, obviously,” she said matter of fact. “It’s rare I have the opportunity to actually look at it like this. He’s always in such a hurry to get to wherever he’s going.” She sighed wistfully.

“What? Who?” He craned his head in the direction she was staring, but it was just Stan and Kyle again, and Stan was still sitting on the ground.

“Oh, don’t act like you don’t know exactly what I’m talking about.” She elbowed him. “You were admiring the masterpiece, too.” Inexplicably, he felt his face grow warm.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” And he didn’t. He hadn’t been _admiring_ anything other than the buffoonery of his friends, but he knew for a fact that that couldn’t be what she was talking about so reverently. Stan was on his feet now, and Kyle was trying to keep his friend balanced while he slung his backpack back over his shoulders. Eventually he just resigned himself, with a little pout, to clutching the bag in one hand while he propped open the locker room doors with his foot.

“Kyle’s thicc ass.” She rolled her eyes. She measured him with slow eyes. “It’s the best damn thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life.”

“Right.”

“Eric Cartman,” she leaned in, “if you’re trying to imply that you wouldn’t sell your soul just to touch it once,” she licked her lips, “then you’re deluding yourself. I would. I would sell my lungs just for a picture.”

“Uh… Huh.” Cartman hiked his backpack and took a step away from the line of lockers.

“That ass is a religion.”

“Bebe, you’re being seriously, really fucking crazy right now, and I have to go before I’m late for class, so I’m just gonna go, okay? Okay.” Cartman reasoned gently. She frowned.

Cartman shoved a needle-nosed junior out of his way and strut proudly into the locker room, putting Bebe as firmly out of his mind as he could. Which was to say, not at all; her words echoed tauntingly off the walls of his skull. Kyle didn’t have a “thicc ass”— he would have noticed. He liked to keep his eyes on him after all.

Cartman growled under his breath and threw his backpack on the bench next to where Kyle was gingerly propping Stan against the wall. Kyle jumped with a shrill yelp, his cheeks immediately flushing. “What the hell, Fatass?” Stan fell on his face. “Shit.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Cartman shrugged. Kyle inhaled slowly, pinched his nose, and returned his attention to Stan. Almost instinctively, the moment his back was turned, Cartman’s eyes dropped, but he wasn’t really able to really see anything because his own damn backpack was in the way. Disappointment flared up in him, and he cursed under his breath. Bebe had gotten to him far too easily. “Have you guys,” he cleared his throat, “scouted out the locker situation yet?”

“No,” Kyle straightened, his arms full of a practically unconscious Stan, “we’ve been otherwise occupied, I’m afraid.”

“I want a big one.” Cartman forced his gaze to the lockers, scoping out the rows for an open big one.

“Of course you do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Cartman huffed, staring into Kyle’s eyes. It was a zone safe from awkward revelations he would have to grapple with; he already knew those emerald gems were pretty and had come to terms with it about a year ago.

“Nothing,” Kyle broke their short-lived stare to admire his handiwork and patted the slumped Stan in satisfaction. “You just tend to take up quite a bit of space is all.”

“Is that a fat joke?” Cartman plopped down on the bench. Immediately, he regretted his choice, as he found himself within close proximity of a particular groin he typically tried not to think too much about, at least not in public, but by that point, he had committed.

“No, it’s a plump joke.” Kyle poked his side with a grin.

“Stupid fucking jew.”

“You really need to diversify your insults, Cartman. It’s boring.” Cartman sputtered. He was not boring. “AHG! Stan!” He jumped forward, but not fast enough to catch Stan before he fell, face forward, tumbling the both of them to the ground in a tangle of limbs. The both groaned lowly, Stan in confused apology and Kyle in annoyance. Cartman burst out laughing.

By the time he was wiping the tears from him eyes, the two of them had reoriented themselves into some semblance of order, Stan sat up against the wall, and Kyle practically crawling into his lap to check his eye for signs of a concussion. Cartman’s eyes snap to that one point he hadn’t wanted, and his body immediately burned. Bebe had been right.

Kyle Broflofvski had the world’s most perfect derriere. He could hear a chorus of angels sing behind him as he stared unblinking. It was round, plump in the way that just begged to groped, with both hands, squeezing and kneading in worship. Cartman gnawed on his lip, his eyes widening. Even with Kyle’s somewhat loose-fitting jeans, he could tell that his gluteus was oh so wonderfully firm, the precise density underwear models starved themselves to achieve.

Without thought, his phone was out of his pocket, and he had snapped a picture. He heart stopped. He hadn’t just done that. His eyes locked on Stan’s bleary blues. He had forgotten that Stan had even been there, and Stan had been facing him the entire time. What kind of transfixing power did Kyle’s ass have, and how had he never fallen victim and prey to it before? He gulped tightly, his mind racing to come up with some signal to make sure Stan didn’t say a thing, when he passed out.

Stan just slumped over and began snoring. Cartman groaned in relief, praying to the god in the highest throne in Heaven that Stan had been far too delirious to even register what he had done. He quickly shoved his phone in his pocket and thrust his nose in the air, in the opposite direction as Kyle’s ass. He was never going to look at that horrible sinful thing again.

“Alright, you lilylubbers!” A deep voice called into the locker room. “Get you asses in the gym!” Cartman choked. Kyle glanced at him oddly.


	2. Stan's Big Respecc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stan and Wendy/Wendyl's dynamic in this one is something I'm sort of developing on the fly. They don't really interact very often in canon, funnily enough, but I hope as the story goes on their chemistry starts to read more organically. :)

The sun tickled his eyes, forcing him out of what little sleep he had managed to slip into. Stan stretched his arms out and grunted in pain. He had fallen asleep outside, folded over a shotgun, and everything ached. He felt something brush against his ankle and glanced down to see a little brown rabbit and shared a secret smile with it. His dad had told him to shoot any plant-eating vermin on sight, but he hadn’t had the heart to shoot the tiny thing and had shared pieces of a sandwich with it instead.

He ruffled the bunny’s ears one last time before standing and throwing his gun over his shoulder. He waved a farewell to it and watched from the doorway as it hopped into the fields of weed and into the horizon, where the sun was just rising. It had to be about six a.m.

He fumbled inside, and kicked off his shoes, yawning, but not nearly as tired as he had been the day before. Sleeping slumped over on the front stoop wasn’t the best, but it was better than not sleeping at all. He dropped the gun on the table with a clatter, feeling an immense weight lift off of him the moment it was no longer on his person. He crinkled his nose at it in disgust and stumbled out of the kitchen and down the hall to his bedroom. He stared mournfully at his bed, seriously contemplating falling into its warm embrace and ditching his second day of school.

But he wouldn’t do that. Unfortunately.

Instead he gathered his clothes for the day and wandered into the bathroom. He threw himself under the shower-head, restraining a moan as the warm water melted his tense muscles and begged him to drift away. He braced himself on the wall and cursed under his breath. Tonight, he planned, he would tell his dad to watch his own damn farm and would sleep. He grinned at nothing, proud of his plan. By that point, he realized he hadn’t actually been washing himself, had just been standing under the water, and scrambled for his three-in-one, hemp shampoo, conditioner, and body wash.

It smelled horrible, but the last time he had brought home soap from the store his dad had thrown a temper tantrum, and he hadn’t the energy to put up with it. Stan held his breath as he lathered himself up, the motions stimulating his mind and finally properly waking him up. It wasn’t going to be the best day, but he would survive it, and at this point, he just wanted to survive. So long as his friends buckled down and didn’t stir anything up this year, he would make it.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<+>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Stan Marsh had a boyfriend today. Wendy was Wendyl today. It always took a moment for him to click his brain over when the shift happened, and when he was tired the moment was a long one, but he put in the conscious effort. Wendy or Wendyl, his stomach still did flips and his heart still ached. It was important to Wendyl, so it was important to him.

“Good morning, Stan,” Wendyl said, leaning playfully against his locker. Stan grinned and let his hands be drawn like magnets to Wendyl’s waist.

“Good morning, Wends.” Wendyl rolled his eyes in amusement and popped up on his toes to kiss Stan’s cheek. “I made a new friend last night.”

“Should I be jealous?”

“Of a rabbit? I don’t know, should you?” Stan teased.

“Oh, indubitably.”

“Well,” Stan nuzzled into Wendyl’s neck and breathed gently into his ear, “I’m not taking a rabbit to dinner tonight.” Wendyl laughed lightly.

“Who are you taking to dinner tonight, then?”

“You, if you’re free.”

“How can I turn down a charmer like you?” Stan grinned, biting down a bout of vomit. Even after all of these years, his stomach still found itself wound up in knots and his palms sweaty with nerves. “Here come your friends.” Stan turned his head to look as fleeting lips pressed chastely to the side of his neck and the warmth pressed against his body fled. He took a selfish moment to rue his friends, but only a moment; he still loved them, two-thirds of them at least.

“I’ll pick you up at five!” He called after Wendyl’s retreating back, mildly distracted by swaying hips. Wendyl saluted over his shoulder and slipped around the corner. He was so cool. Stan sighed dopily, already having forgotten his approaching friends, content to doze off in the direction where his boyfriend for today had just been.

“Kyehl, we make such a great team.” His friends weren’t easily forgotten, Eric Cartman especially not so. “Remember when we ran a burger stand together? That was great.” Stan sighed and tore his eyes away from the empty hall. Cartman was hanging on Kyle’s shoulders, crushing the smaller boy under his weight.

Kyle hefted Cartman off of him, and Kenny side-stepped with a laugh to avoid having to help him rebalance himself. “I was just playing along with a whim. You look better today, Stan.”

“Uh…” Stan blinked. “Thanks, dude.”

“Don’t men—,”

“Or what about that time we ran the Crack Ba—,”

“Eric Theodore Cartman,” Kyle whirled around, “you do _not_ interrupt me.” Cartman held out his palms defensively, and Kyle returned to Stan with a serene smile. “Anyway, don’t mention it. I just like to spread a little positivity wherever I can.”

“Kyehl,” Cartman whined, “stop ignoring meeehh.”

“I’m not ignoring you,” Kyle responded calmly. “The conversation is simply over.”

“It is not! I don’t want to sit next to Scott Malkinson in History.”

“And I already told you, ‘tough shit’. I’m not going to switch places with you just because you were late to third period yesterday. I’m quite content sitting next to Wendy.”

“Wendyl,” Stan interjected quietly. Kyle regarded him silently for a moment before nodding brusquely.

“I’m not going to trade sitting next to Wendyl for sitting next to Scott fucking Malkinson. I have my grades to consider, and I’m not going to be able to focus if I have to listen to his wet breathing for an entire hour everyday.” Kyle scrunched up in frustration, his entire frame vibrating from the mere imaginings of hypothetical future irritation.

“Kyehl, you’re missing the point.” Cartman gesticulated. “I want you to trade spots with _Scott_ , and _we’ll_ sit next to each other!”

“Wow, yeah, I’m definitely over the moon thinking about _that_. I said ‘no,’ Cartman.”

“Do you not like me anymore, Kyehl? Is that what this is?” Cartman crossed his arms and blinked at Kyle dejectedly, going so far as to stick out his lower lip and pout. Stan felt tired. It really did grow old sometimes, just listening to them. He met Kenny’s eyes, and he could tell that the unruly blond was just as bored of it all as he was.

“I never liked you.” Kyle shrugged calmly. Cartman opened his mouth to protest, but decided against it. He just huffed in defeat and bumped his head back against the lockers. He glanced bitterly at Kyle before pulling out his phone and closing off, glaring at whatever was on his screen.

“Does anyone remember where my first period is?” Stan asked the group, his cheeks burning in embarrassment. He knew what class he had… Math, but despite his best efforts, where the classroom was actually located eluded him. Cartman didn’t acknowledge the question, but Kyle and Kenny nodded. Stan sighed in relief.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<+>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Eric Cartman felt sick to his stomach. He had been staring at that stupid picture almost without stop since the moment he had taken it. Even when he had turned off his phone to sleep, the image had been seared into his brain and had haunted his dreams. Now, sitting in third period, at the back of the room listening to Scott Malkinson mutter under his breath in the childhood lisp he had never quite managed to drop, his fingers itched to pull out his phone again and hide it behind his propped up textbook, already bored of filling out the book check-out form.

A puff of red at the front of the room caught his eye. There was Kyle, the absolute bastard, running his hand through his tauntingly exposed hair (their history teacher had a strict no hats rule) as he giggled to something Stan’s stupid girlfriend— boyfriend had just said to him. That was supposed to _him._ He was supposed to be mending his broken friendship, but instead he was listening to the disgusting labored noises of a swollen-tongued weirdo.

Fuck it. He flicked his phone onto his desk and unlocked it, feeling entirely singularly obsessed, stupidly so. He had always had a certain fascination for the scrawny redhead, but the introduction of his perfect ass into it all made everything feel so empty and vapid. And he wasn’t like that, he felt a deep, inarguable connection, a linking of fates, that he refused to have be ruined by a dull attraction to his ass. He refused to be no less special than a vacuous blonde like Bebe Stevens.

He glared at his screen in rage. Bebe wasn’t even a rival, and yet his chest flared up in jealousy. That must have been why he had taken the picture in the first place, just to have something she couldn’t have. Which was stupid because he didn’t even _have_ anything, and no-one ever would. The stupid jew had come out as asexual their freshman year, about a month before Cartman had planned on properly asking him out, ruining everything, which he was just so very skilled at, always ruining his carefully laid out plans.

It didn’t even mean anything that he had it over her, since she didn’t even know either. He tapped his screen distractedly to keep it from going dark. It wasn’t even a very good picture. The lighting sucked and the angle he had taken it from didn’t do the subject any favors, not to say that it didn’t make his cheeks water regardless. He sighed, exhausted by the thoughts that raced through his head, about how he would stage it differently if he ever had the opportunity, how he would improve the lighting, the composition.

He glanced up at the clock, noticing that there were three more minutes left to class and closed his eyes. He tucked his phone back into his pocket, quickly scribbled ‘decent’ in each of the blanks left on his form and started packing up his bag. He was going to have to hurry to his feet and shove his way out of the room the moment the bell rang. He’d have to find Bebe and nip this entire thing in the bud before the picture started to actually mean something to him, no longer passive but in his consciousness.

The bell went off, and he was on his feet. He barked quickly after shoving Scott Malkinson onto the floor and bounded out the door. His eyes desperately scanned the halls. He had no idea what Bebe’s schedule was, or where she tended to frequent, but he had to find her. Fortune shining down on him however, he spotted her almost immediately, staked out next to the drinking fountains across the hall, her hooded eyes fixed on the classroom door.

“Bebe!” He called, jogging up to her. Annoyance flashed over her face, and her eyes flicked at him.

“What do you want?” She flipped a lock of curly blonde hair over her shoulder as she craned her head to look over his shoulder.

“I have something I want to show you.”

“Can it wait?” She popped up on her toes, her stilettos clicking as she bounced impatiently. “I’m busy.”

“Just—,” Cartman shoved his phone under her nose. She rolled her eyes with a growl and looked down. She froze and snatched his hand and wrist with both hands, her bright blue manicure digging in possessively as she tugged the screen, starving, closer. She grinned predatorily and made Cartman jump when her eyes dizzily refocused on him.

“Where did you get this? No, never mind that, send it to me!”

“No, I’m deleting it. I don’t even know why I showed you.”

“Eric Cartman, I’ll give you fifty dollars right now if you send me that picture.” She gripped him manically, and the blood rushed from Cartman’s face.

“Fifty dollars?” It was hard to refuse the prospect of money. “Do you even have fifty dollars?” Bebe feverishly dug through her purse and produced a slightly crumpled fifty dollar bill. Cartman licked his lips. What harm could it be, to send her that one blurry photograph? Especially for fifty whole big ones. He cursed his greedy heart.

“Give me your number,” Cartman glanced over his shoulder, sweat dripping down his brow, and passed her the phone. It felt like he was dealing drugs, far too overdramatic a feeling for what was actually happening. Bebe squealed and snatched his phone from his loose grip, replacing it with the money. She quickly typed. Her acrylic nails against the glass screen were a sound he was certain would never leave him.

“Thanks!” She sang, tucking his phone back into his coat pocket with a gleeful pat. “If you happen to come across any more photos like this one,” she winked deviously, “I’d be happy to pay for you to share.” She twirled on her heel, short red skirt swishing in joy, and skipped off for her next class. Cartman knew that he should probably be doing the same, but he was rooted to the spot. He stared blankly at the fifty dollar bill, the money feeling gritty under the pads of his fingers.

He felt like a traitor.

He inhaled sharply and shoved the money angrily in his pocket. It was lucrative, and it would be so very easy for him to take another candid picture to trade with her. Yet, his heart raced painfully at the thought.

“I think you should sign up.” Cartman squawked at the sudden voice in his ear, practically jumping out of his skin. Once his heart stilled, he looked over. Kyle stared at him, his head tilted sardonically, his bright green hat pulled firmly over his ears now that he was in the hall.

“Sign up?” Cartman swallowed, his newfound _wealth_ burning against his leg. Kyle laughed and pointed over his shoulder. Cartman followed his finger, to a signup sheet for the school yearbook.

“Don’t tell anyone I said this,” Kyle teased, “but I really liked the pictures you took last year.” Kyle nudged him, making Cartman look at him again, not that it was ever difficult for Kyle to earn his attention, really all he had to do was exist. He held a pen out to him and waggled it in his face. Cartman snatched the pen out of his grip and quickly scribbled his name on the post.

“I didn’t realize you paid that much attention to them.”

“I didn’t really.” Kyle shrugged, taking back his pen. “But you have a knack for photography, so… you know.” He shrugged again.

“They were just yearbook photos.”

“Are you really turning down a compliment?” Kyle smirked and bumped Cartman with his hip, sauntering off down the hall. Cartman hurried to follow him, in the opposite direction of his own class.

“You’re right, Kyehl. Please, proceed praising me.”

“I already finished.”

“Dammit.”

“If your pictures are just as good _this_ year, maybe I’ll consider complimenting you again.” Kyle stopped outside of a classroom and turned back, leaning against the doorframe. He had just walked him all the way to class, and they were standing close enough that if he leaned down, they would be in each other’s faces. If he so desired, he could kiss Kyle before he even had any inkling of his intention.

“Are you sure we’re not friends?”

Kyle frowned. “We’re not.” Cartman deflated, not really knowing what he had expected in the first place. He watched Kyle hesitate and his eyes soften. “We’re not friends, Cartman, but for what it’s worth, We’re not nothing either.”

“Fat lot of worth your not nothing is, Kyehl,” Cartman grumbled. “What the hell is a guy supposed to do? How far do you want me to bend over backwards just to be considered your friend, huh? I’ve been so much nicer to you these last few years.”

“For starters,” Kyle scoffed, “you could actually call me by my name.” He shoved off from the wall and turned to disappear into the classroom. Cartman caught his wrist. Kyle glanced back up at him. His expression was guarded, if a little annoyed.

“Okay… Kyle. Is that what you want?”

Kyle was quiet. His cheeks pink and his eyes darting around the hall. They were drawing quite a bit attention from the stragglers. “Yeah.”

“Okay. Okay, good. I really do want to try being your friend, Kyle.”

“Okay.”

“Can we maybe, meet up later,” Cartman rubbed the back of his neck, trying to draw the blood there and away from the front of his face, “just the two of us, to talk?”

“Yeah, okay sure, we can talk after school.” Kyle stared down at his sneakers. “I really need to go though. I’ll…” He looked back at Cartman with squinted eyes. Cartman’s chest felt tight. “I’ll see you at lunch.”

Kyle slipped into the classroom just as the bell rang. “Dammit,” Cartman muttered under his breath. He was late to class. At this point, he threw his arms in the air to the benefit of an audience of one, he might as well just ditch class entirely. So, he stomped over to the vending machine, withdrew five dollars worth of potato chips and Poptarts, and went to go hang out in the courtyard, nestled between a wall and a shrub.

Crankily crunching his potato chips, he decided to pull out his phone. And stare at that godforsaken image once again. A desire curled up in his stomach and flicked his greedy heart awake. He wanted another photo. He wanted a better one, one that appealed to his artistic sensibilities. He already could visualize the lighting he wanted to use, the way he would frame it, the pose he would have Kyle in.

Fuck.

He was going to have to tell Kyle about the photo. He considered deleting, but he knew he’d have to show it to Kyle now. The thought had raced through his mind, and now he wouldn’t be able to just drop it and still proceed with his plan to befriend the ginger. He wouldn’t be able to meet his eyes.

Cartman grumbled and pulled up his messages.

Eric: Do U have work 2nite?

He placed his phone on his thigh and sighed. He knew Kyle was going to be mad, but he hoped that he’d be free enough that he’d be able to bribe him into a better mood with food. He knew food would work on himself. His phone buzzed and he scrambled to check it without breaking the maple pop tart in his mouth.

Joo: No. Why?

Eric: I was thinking, if ur free we could get a bite to eta?

Joo: *eat

Joo: Sure, but my dad gets home at seven so it’ll have to be quick.

Eric: Deal.

Cartman grinned and stowed his phone away. It wasn’t a date, but he was excited. He briefly considered going home to put on something nicer after school, but he didn’t want Kyle looking at him strangely. He was going to brush his teeth though, just in case.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<+>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Stan’s truck idled outside the Testaburger residence. Stan quickly checked in the review mirror to make sure there was nothing in his teeth and jumped out of the truck. He smoothed the front of his buttoned shirt as he jogged up to the front door. He shook out his hands, rolled his shoulders back, and knocked lightly on the door.

Wendyl opened the door, dressed in tight black slacks and a fitted black blazer buttoned over a light purple turtleneck. “Wow!” Stan stared slack jawed. “You’re so hot!” He blushed, feeling like this was their first date all over again, and went to present the bouquet of little white flowers… that he had left in his truck. He jerked around to see them sitting sadly in the passenger seat.

“Thanks, Handsome.” Wendyl winked cheekily and locked the front door behind him. “Where are we going?”

“Buca de Faggoncini.”

“Fancy.” Wendyl whistled. Stan didn’t really know what to say, so he just nodded dumbly and hustled ahead so he could open the passenger door. He knew Wendyl usually liked to be fairly independent, but he also believed that if one picked up somebody for a date, whether a boy or a girl, than one should open the door for said date. He knew Wendyl humored him whenever he did, and it made him feel warm inside.

“Are these for me?” Wendyl asked.

“Yeah.” Stan nodded, slamming the door shut. When Stan climbed into his own side, Wendyl had the flowers pressed up to his nose and was breathing deeply.

“They smell delightful. Thank you, Stan.”

“Anything for the light in my life.”

“You’re so romantic,” Wendyl gushed. They smiled fondly at each other, Stan gazing longingly into Wendyl’s deep brown eyes. Everything about the person in front of him was just perfect. He leaned forward and planted a kiss on Wendyl’s lips. Wendyl nipped his bottom lip as he pulled back. They stared at each other a moment longer as he started the engine.

“So,” he asked, arm thrown over the passenger seat so he could see out the back window, “how was your day?”

“It was fine.” Wendyl glared out the window. “For the first half of the day, then Bebe started giggling at her phone like a creep. She was literally frothing out the mouth. It’s gross. She’s like a reverse lecher.”

“Gross,” Stan drummed his fingers absently on the worn seat leather. “What was she even looking at?” He didn’t really care, but Wendyl was raring up for a rant about the world’s social injustices, and he knew by now that it was easier to just let him flush it out of his system. When he was done, Stan had pictures of the rabbits he had befriended playing with Sparky that they could scroll through over spaghetti and breadsticks.

“A voyeuristic picture of some guy’s butt, and no, I hadn’t really wanted to ask whose butt it was.”

“What?” Stan guffawed. “Like an actual just full-on butt?”

“That’s the worst part! It wasn’t even a picture of a _naked_ butt! It was like a picture of some guy leaning over, and she was perving out over it! It’s sickening that she just goes about like it’s not even a problem! She has a boyfriend, Stan!”

“It wasn’t Clyde in the picture then, was it?”

“What do you think?”

“I think poor Clyde.” Stan shrugged reasonably. Wendyl rolled his eyes, but quirked the faint impression of a smile. “I’m just glad that you and I are different, that we respect each other and our relationship.”

“Me too, Stan.” Wendyl laid a soft hand over his. “You’re so sweet.”

“Thanks…” Why was he so easily flustered?

“Did you make a reservation for us? You know Buca de Faggoncini is usually pretty popular.” Wendyl looked at Stan in that way that made him feel like an idiot, in that way that made him want to prove himself to be a strong and capable man, capable of taking care of himself and his partner, capable of taking on the entire world. He puffed his chest up in inflated pride.

“I did. I called them this morning, since this date is a product of romantic spontaneity,” Stan winked making Wendyl chuckle, “and lucky for us, since it’s a Tuesday, they had a table open for us.”

“Good job, I’m proud of you, Stan.”

“Thanks, Wends.” Stan wiggled his shoulders happily before realizing what he was doing. He immediately froze, and the two of them locked eyes. They were silent for only a beat before they both broke out in laughter. Stan snorted painfully, trying to keep himself calm enough to parallel park. It took him three tries to get it right, but hopefully Wendyl had been too distracted laughing to notice. “Let me come around and get your door!”

“Such a gentleman.”

Stan grinned eagerly and raced around the back of his truck, skimming his hand over the top of the bed. He flung open the door and held his arms open for Wendyl to jump into, which he gratefully picked up on and complied with. Stan excitedly spun them in a quick circle and set Wendyl down gently, still holding onto his waist.

“I love you,” Stan declared.

“I love you, too.”

They entered the restaurant arm in arm, each of them holding open one of the double doors open so they could enter together. They strut right up to the host and waited patiently for him to look up from twirling his Italian mustache and notice them. Wendyl cleared his throat non-intrusively, and the man glanced up.

“Uh, hi,” Stan waved awkwardly. “Stan Marsh, I um… made reservations for two?”

“Stan Marsh?” The man flipped through his book. “Si, a-follow me.” Stan and Wendyl shared a look with each other. Most people had long since agreed that most of the staff here forced their accents to be thicker than they really were. No-one living in Colorado had an authentic Italian accent. It just wasn’t a thing that happened.

When they arrived at their table, Stan pulled out a chair for Wendyl. He didn’t do it to be condescending, which he was always thinking about when he was with the dark-haired beauty, but because it was what one was ought to do when one took one out on a date. His head spun. Wendyl sighed and sat in the chair.

“So, I’ve been thinking about running an assembly to raise awareness amongst the student body,” Wendyl launched before Stan could even situate himself. He glanced up with a confused hum.

“About what?” Stan flapped out his napkin and splayed it over his lap, like the fancy people in the movies.

“I want to raise awareness about the double standards society holds for the separate sexes. Women are held far less leniently for the same perverted actions as men, and it’s time that we start treating everyone equally.” Wendyl huffed and snapped his napkin to unfold it.

“That’s a heavy topic.”

“It’s an important topic.”

“I’m not arguing with you on that one.” Stan said into his menu. “I just worry about you stirring the pot so much.” He could feel dark eyes boring into the top of his head. He sighed low enough that he wouldn’t be heard.

“Are you saying you think I shouldn’t?”

“No.” Stan set down his menu. He hadn’t read a single word. “I’m saying that I want to be behind you for every word. I support you wholly, Wends. You know I do.”

“I know you do, Stan.”

“I do!” Stan gestured animatedly with his menu. “Even if I don’t really understand most of your causes, and even if your speeches confuse me sometimes because you use words I’m unfamiliar with. I can tell that you think it’s all really important, and if you think so then it is because you’re almost never wrong!” Stan gasped for air. “I support you, Wendyl!”

Wendyl’s eyes grew large, He blinked, head darting slightly as if trying to find the words to say. “I…” He stared down at his hands, which Stan reached across the table to grab. “That means a lot to me, Stan. I know I’ve said this before, but you’re really sweet.”

“You’re really important to me, and I…” Stan trailed off, a large, angry splotch of red near the front of the restaurant grabbing his attention.

“I can see like five open tables, brah!” There was Eric fucking Cartman, making a production out of being an absolute bastard. He was leaned over the host’s podium, jabbing angrily at the poor man’s book. Stan frowned, nothing Kyle standing at his side, looking decidedly embarrassed.

“What the fuck?” Stan muttered. Wendyl turned to see what he was staring at.

Kyle quickly pulled Cartman back and hissed something at him. He turned to the host, his face pinched up and apologetic as he continued to tug Cartman back. He yanked the asshole pig’s ear down to his level and murmured something in it. Cartman huffed and nodded his head. He was agreeing, but anyone could tell he wasn’t very happy about it.

“You know what?!” Cartman announced. “Your breadsticks taste like cardboard anyway!” He was yanked out the front doors. The restaurant was dead silent after that. Wendyl cleared his throat. Stan drew his eyes slowly back to his date.

“Are they…” Wendyl searched for the word, “dating?”

“I didn’t… _think_ so…” Stan responded slowly. Something about this didn’t sit right with him. He didn’t like the thought of Kyle keeping secrets from him, and secrets that involved Eric Cartman were secrets that he needed to worry about.


	3. Cartman's Wonderful Plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTICE: Anyone who read chapter one before this chapter was posted, I have gone back and made an edit. Essentially I added a brief moment where Cartman stares at a black ring on Kyle's right middle finger and pouts about it. (Asexuality ring)

“We’re scheduling!” Kyle shouted from the kitchen. Cartman, seated uncomfortably on the Broflovski living room couch, twiddled his thumbs. “It’s the best way to maximize the learning output I can get from my school day!” It was absolute bullshit, and he knew Kyle was talking out of his glorious ass.

Cartman had rolled up to the Broflovski household at five thirty on the motorcycle he had begged him mum to get him for his fifteenth birthday, body thrumming with anticipation of the prospect of having Kyle press his body up against his as they tore down the sleepy streets of South Park. He had _not_ skipped up the steps, nor had he slicked back his hair before ringing the doorbell. Kyle had answered the door, his eyes dead and his jaw twitching from how tightly it was clenched shut.

It turned out his dad had come home early, having stormed out after a frustrating day at the office, which didn’t fare well for the two of them. Kyle apparently didn’t have the approval to be hanging out with friends on a school night, even if it was the second day of school and nobody actually had any work to better spend their time on. Kyle had ushered him to the couch, signaling him to be quiet, and had disappeared into the kitchen with his dad.

That had been thirteen minutes ago.

Honestly, it was exhausting, and Cartman wondered how Kyle actually lived with the man. He couldn’t even imagine having such an overbearing parent. They weren’t even going to be gone for more than two hours, and it wasn’t like they were going to be doing drugs, or that Kyle was actually neglecting some sort of loathsome responsibility.

Kyle came barreling out of the kitchen, his eyes relatively unhinged. Cartman bit his inner cheek. “Get up!” Kyle ordered him. Cartman jumped immediately to his feet and hurried to the door. Kyle was already hopping into his second shoe by the time he reached the door, which had only takes about two seconds.

“He agreed to let you go?”

“No,” Kyle threw open the door and pushed him out, “I told him to fuck himself, so let’s go before the shock wears off.”

“Oh ho! That’s…” he couldn’t say _hot_ , that would offend him, and not in the way he typically liked him to be offended, “…kewl.”

“…Thanks?” Kyle blinked at him as he straightened his coat. “Where are we going to— oh god. Cartman.”

“What?”

“You can’t expect me to ride that thing.” Kyle flapped a hand at his motorcycle. Cartman grinned easily and threw an arm over Kyle’s shoulders. Kyle tensed.

“Of course I do. You’re not scared,” he leaned down, “Are you?”

“No.” Kyle shrugged his arm off and snatched up the one helmet. Fair enough, Cartman really should have expected as much. It wasn’t going to be as satisfying to have a glass shield pressed up against his back as Kyle’s cheek would have been, but he was going to have to live with it. “So long as you’re competent that is.”

“Oh fuck you, of course I’m competent.” Cartman jumped on the bike and smacked the seat behind him. Kyle chuckled and clambered on behind him.

Cartman breathed in slowly, restraining the shiver that fought to race up his spine. He hadn’t really thought this through. He kicked off and revved the engine, disguising his excited shaking with the gentle vibrations of the bike. Kyle squeaked and clamped four-limbed, all arms and knees, around him, tight enough to hurt. Cartman gasped and peeled away from the curb.

The wind whipped his hair every which way and made his eyes leak, and he had to keep his mouth closed to avoid eating a swarm of bugs, but he couldn’t care less. As the suburban houses blurred in streaks of bland color and individual lawns began to bleed together, he decided he wouldn’t trade this moment for the world. He memorized the tug and pull behind him, letting every faint sensation be engrained in his memory forever. Either tonight would go well and they’d be… friends… or they would never speak to each other again.

His phone felt heavy in his pocket.

He swerved dangerously.

“CARTMAN!” Kyle dug his claws into his stomach. Cartman grunted. He slowed and pulled up to a stop at a red light. His heart hammered in his chest, adrenaline coursing from being shouted at more than anything. He straightened just enough that he could shout back.

“I wasn’t going to crash!”

“Are we almost there?” Kyle’s voice shook. Cartman chose not to comment on it.

“Two more streets.” He set off again. He hated this. Kyle clearly didn’t trust him, and why should he? He had never really given him a reason to in the past. It still sucked. He had been trying so hard the last few years, but it had all been absolutely meaningless. He just— he just wanted— he leaned forward, seeing the ivy-clad walls of Buca de Faggoncini.

The moment they stopped, Kyle was gone, leaving Cartman’s back cold, and by the time Cartman had killed the engine, he was about a yard away, panting and trying not to show that he was. Cartman calmly kicked out the stand and stood. He brushed back his hair with one hand and cautiously approached the hyperventilating red-head. Kyle thrust the helmet into his arms.

“Why are we here?” Kyle asked, staring at the building suspiciously. Cartman’s stomach dropped. He had figured a nicer restaurant would be a better setting for mending their friendship, would soften the blow when he revealed that he had already betrayed the tentative, unformed, trust between them, but Kyle was already standing with his fists tightened, braced for a bomb to be dropped on him.

“I like Italian food.” Cartman tucked his helmet under his arm and shrugged. Kyle closed his eyes and nodded. He was trying; he’d agreed to hear him out, and he was trying. Cartman appreciated this.

The place was half-empty, which was perfect. If Kyle ended up blowing his load, there wouldn’t be too many witnesses. Cartman grinned, the melded scents of tomatoes and carbs swirling in his gut. He marched up to the host, Kyle surprisingly hesitant behind him. The host glanced up, clear distaste befalling him.

“Excuse me, my kind sir,” Cartman leaned casually against the podium, “a table for myself and my fastidious friend here.” He gestured at Kyle. Kyle stared at him tiredly. Cartman cleared his throat and tugged at the collar of his shirt.

“Do you-a have a reservation?”

“No,” Cartman leaned back, confused, “I’ve never made a reservation here before.”

“Well, then I’m-a very-a sorry, but we are-a full tonight.” The host didn’t look particularly sorry.

“But you’re _clearly_ not,” Cartman retorted.

“Sorry, can’t-a help you.”

He was absolutely flabbergasted. Half of the restaurant was empty. This guy was just being a complete douchebag. He thought about requesting to see this man’s manager. He looked indignantly at Kyle, who just shrugged his shoulders, clearly nowhere near as frustrated as he was.

“Kyle, flash him or something, that’ll get us in,” Cartman whispered.

“Excuse me, what?” Kyle choked.

“Mi ‘scusi, but-a you’re-a going to have to-a leave,” the host interrupted.

“Look here Linguini!” Cartman snapped, leaping at him. He grabbed the man by the front of his stupid buttoned shirt and shook him liberally. “I can see like five open tables, brah!” He stabbed the reservation book, forcing the man to look down on his scribbled margins. The man shook, his eyes wide and wet, clearly unaccustomed to being handled so roughly.

“Cartman!” Kyle hissed, hooking his arms under his armpits. Cartman was yanked back, but his heart was still thrumming, ready for a fight. “Let’s just go. I’m so sorry, sir. He’s a bit… touched. We’ll just go.”

“Kyehl, let go of me!” Cartman tried to jerk out of his grip. He felt a sharp sting on his ear and winced as he was tugged down.

“If you want any hope in Hell of being friends,” Kyle murmured firmly, “then you will follow me out those front doors right this very moment. Understood?” Cartman nodded. Kyle let go of him, and he brushed off the front of his coat.

“You know what?! Your breadsticks taste like cardboard anyway!” It wasn’t true, he loved their breadsticks, but he was angry.

He felt himself be tugged out the doors, and he was surrounded by the quiet chill of the nighttime air, and the burning bite of Kyle’s frozen glare. Cartman opened his mouth to say something, but he was silenced by Kyle pointedly turning away. A tense moment passed between them. A car drove past, a blur of blue paint and red light.

“This is part of why we aren’t friends, you know.” Kyle said, staring up at the sky. The sun was setting, dying the sky beautiful hues of pink and orange. “You always do something embarrassing. Do you ever think?”

“Not generally, no.” Kyle rolled his eyes incredulously.

“And why the fuck would you ask me to _flash_ somebody?” Kyle rounded on him. “What is _wrong_ with you?! Did you think that was funny? Am I a joke to you? Huh?” Kyle’s nose twitched as he hollered, his entire body vibrating with anger. He usually lived to see Kyle react this way, but on his terms.

“Funny?”

“You told me you wanted to be friends, but so far as I can tell, you just wanted to drag me to one of the nicer places in town so you could try and humiliate me!” Kyle shoved him. “It’s not happening!”

“Kyle, I wasn’t tying to humiliate you!”

“It was demeaning! Look, I get it, I’m not the most attractive guy in the world,” Kyle ranted. Cartman was still, not really following anymore. He wasn’t making any sense. “but that doesn’t mean that you, of _all fucking people,_ can just passively mock me! Friends don’t make rude comments about each other’s bodies!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Here’s the deal, okay?” Kyle shoved into his space, hands on his hips like a disappointed mother. “I get it; _I’ve_ made fun of _you_ in the past, for being a lazy fucking fatass, which you are by the way, but it’s not like you didn’t know, or that I didn’t have things myself that I wouldn’t particularly care to have pointed out—,” Kyle gasped for air, “So, I’ll agree not to say anything derogatory about your body and you won’t comment on _my_ appearance, okay?” Kyle jutted out his hand.

“Um… okay, Kyle.” Cartman took his hand and shook it. “I really didn’t mean anything by it, though.”

“Whatever, are we still going to go eat, or what? You’re paying, right?”

Cartman blinked, seriously suffering from whiplash. “Uh, yeah, we can still go eat.”

Kyle grinned widely, his prefect teeth gleaming as they caught one last dying ray of the sun. “Good because I’m starving!” He grabbed Cartman’s helmet and tossed it at him. Cartman caught it with an ‘oof’. “And you _are_ paying.”

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<+>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

“Oh god!” Kyle moaned scandalously. “Cheesy fries are better than sex, I fucking swear!” He crammed a cheese laden fry into his mouth and threw his head back in ecstasy. Cartman shifted uncomfortably in the squeaking booth seat.

“How would you know? You’ve never had sex.”

“I can assume.” Kyle shrugged, licking the cheese off his fingers. Cartman had to look away. It shouldn’t be legal to eat like that in public.

“So,” Cartman cleared his throat, hand held like a visor over his eyes, just barely blotting out Kyle’s face. “How’s the house hunting been?”

“Terrible!” Kyle growled, waving a limp fry at him. He felt a cold slob of cheese splatter against his hand. It made him feel warm. “Surprisingly,” Kyle laughed snidely, “no-one wants to give me a loan.”

“Shocking.”

“Right!” Kyle emphatically smacked the table. “And as if I wasn’t already struggling to make the numbers work, my dad told me last night that he doesn’t want me working more than seven hours a week this year! _Apparently_ he doesn’t think I’ve been taking my future seriously enough _just_ because I told him I don’t want to go to law school!” Kyle crammed about four more fries into his mouth. “At this point I’m almost desperate enough to sell fucking homework.”

“Kyle,” Cartman reasoned gently, “we all know you’re going to get a full-ride, and that would take care of the whole housing thing, so…” Cartman gestured vaguely. Kyle shook his head.

“You’re entirely missing the point.”

“What is the point?”

“The _point_ ,” Kyle grasped blankly, “is my fucking dad.”

“Okay, well,” Cartman hesitated, “can I speak to you as a friend?” Fry midway to his mouth, Kyle studied him carefully. He put the cheesy potato on his tongue and chewed thoughtfully, his eyes not once leaving Cartman’s face. He really shouldn’t be allowed to do that.

“You might as well.” Kyle shrugged, trying to look nonchalant, but anyone who knew him as well as Cartman knew him would be able to tell that that one little allowance bothered him greatly. Cartman tired not to be offended. He was a good friend.

“Have you considered applying to a school that isn’t… law school?”

“Of course I have, but even if I’m able to get a dorm, I wouldn’t be able to move in until the fall terms, and I don’t want to live another moment under my current roof than I _absolutely_ have to. Also,” Kyle tore the head off another fry. It was strangely visceral, “My dad monitors my mail.”

“Haha, what.”

“I know.”

“Kyle,” Cartman said slowly, watching Kyle stare at him, “I need to tell you something, and I need you to just hear me out and listen calmly because I’m really starting to think that this is actually going to _benefit_ you.”

“And there’s the other shoe.” Kyle threw his fry down, apparently done eating, and shoved the plate across the table. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest and slumped down in his seat. “What inane scheme were you trying to lull me into this time?”

“I didn’t want to lull you into anything. I actually wanted to confess something to you so we could start our friendship on even feet.” Kyle blinked once, unamused. Cartman felt a bead of sweat roll down the side of his face. “But now I’m starting to see it as the rare financial boon, for the both of us, that it is!”

“What did you do?” Kyle’s nostrils flared as he tried to keep his voice down.

“Kyle, I think you should sell Bebe pictures of your ass.”

“You want me to do _WHAT?!”_ Kyle burst out of his feet and slammed both hands on the table. The spattering of families in the restaurant turned to gawk at him in curiosity. Kyle flushed, beautifully embarrassed. He sat back down and leaned forward so he could hiss menacingly, “Why would I want to do that?”

“She said she would pay good money.”

“Okay, first of all,” Kyle sat back and rubbed at his temples, “I’m one _hundred_ percent certain that whatever context Bebe said that in was sarcastic. And second, out of all of your hair-brained and borderline illegal schemes you’ve tried to involve me in over the years, I’m offended that you would even _consider_ suggesting I make…” he quickly looked around, leaned across the table and lowered his voice, “ _porn_.”

“Okay, I know it sounds crazy,” Kyle’s eyebrows flew up into his hair, “but Bebe was like totally seriously about this! I showed her a picture, and she paid me _on the spot!_ And it wasn’t even a _good_ picture, it was blurry and definitely not my best work. Imagine if we actually—,”

“Eric Cartman,” Kyle teepee’ed his hands in front of his face, “are you trying to tell me that you _already_ sold a picture of my ass that you took _without_ my knowledge or, _more importantly,_ my consent? Because you had better hope to God that’s _not_ what you just told me.”

“Um…”

“Show me.” Kyle jutted his open palm across the table.

“What?” Cartman laughed awkwardly. He was distinctly aware of a droplet of sweat rolling slowly down the side of his face, but he didn’t dare make a move to wipe it away.

“Show me what you gave her,” Kyle demanded slowly. Cartman sighed and nodded. He unlocked his phone, pulled up the photo, which he was increasingly ashamed of every time he saw, and silently slid the phone next to Kyle’s plate. Kyle snatched up the phone and jammed his nose up against it. His eyes bugged out of his head, and his cheeks paled. He tapped the screen, and Cartman heard the picture disappear off his phone forever.

“Hey!” He snatched his phone back. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“What do you mean?” Kyle crossed his arms and slumped back with a huff. “Obviously I don’t want you having a photo of my ass on your phone. Give me the money Bebe gave you.”

“The money?”

“Yes! God! Are you fucking slow? Why would I let you just profit off of this? You’re going to give me the money, and we’re never going to talk about this again! And I swear to God, Cartman, that if I ever even _suspect_ that you’ve tried to take another—,”

“Okay! Kyle, hold on.” Cartman fished the fifty dollars out of his pocket. “I’ll give you the money, but please just hear me out. I think you’re really skipping out on a great opportunity.”

“I don’t—,”

Cartman waved the bill frantically, “Fifty bucks, Kyle! She gave me fifty bucks for that _one_ picture of your ass!”

“Fifty bucks? What?” Kyle lunged across the table and ripped the money from Cartman’s hand. He stared at the money almost reverently. “For my _ass?_ For _my_ ass? What the fuck?”

“This is what I’m talking about, Kyle.” Cartman grinned. The cards were lining up, and he was confident he’d be able to re-arrange them in his favor. “That was just for one, shitty picture. Imagine if we took more pictures, ones that were actually good.”

“But…” Kyle was quiet. He worried his lip, which Cartman definitely did not fixate on, and sighed. “It’s demeaning.”

“It doesn’t have to be.” Cartman said simply. “Think about it logically for a moment.” He stretched his arms out until they cracked. “You were still fully dressed in the picture Bebe bought. You won’t be showing anything that no one can’t see when you walk down the fucking street, so it’s hardly even close to being pornographic. I hardly see what’s demeaning about that, especially if _you_ control the uh… the narrative.”

“But it’s—,”

“Easy money, Kyle, it’s easy money, is what it is.” Cartman reached across the table and laid his hand over Kyle’s. Kyle jerked away. It stung, he would confess, but he didn’t let it show, just left his hand there and smoothly continued. “You won’t have to do anything. I’ll do the hard part, and you’ll roll in the big bucks. You said so yourself, you’re desperate right now, and this is the kind of offer you can’t really refuse.”

“Big bucks?” Kyle propped his head in his palm. “Just how much money do you think you’d even be able to bleed out of Bebe?”

“Enough.” Cartman shrugged. “Look, Kyle, if Bebe is willing to pay top dollar, then I’m certain there are other interested parties. You have like the perfect ass, Kyle.”

“Oh my god,” Kyle groaned, letting his eyes roll into the back of his head, “I can’t believe you’re seriously suggesting this! I can’t believe I’m _still here!”_

“C’mon, what’s you’re hangup?” Cartman didn’t want to think he was whining, but he definitely was. There was no denying it. This would all be so much easier if Kyle wasn’t such a prude, he thought ruefully. If _he_ had a moneymaker strapped to his back, he wouldn’t even question it, he would utilize it to its fullest potential.

“I don’t know, Cartman! Gee, whatever could possibly be my ‘ _hangup_ ’ _?_ Could it be that I have self-respect? Oh! Or maybe it’s because I don’t want to be involved in fucking porn!” Kyle slammed his hands on the table, seething at the mouth.

“It’s not porn, Kyle. If anything, it’s modeling.”

“Modeling.” Kyle repeated flatly.

“We could even spin it into an artistic statement, Kyle. It’ll be anything but porn, I promise.” Cartman crossed himself and saluted as accurately as he could remember from his short childhood stint as a boy scout. “We won’t do anything you’re not _entirely_ comfortable with.” Kyle was quiet. “And you’ll make 40%.”

“Fuck you! It’s _my_ ass! 75%!”

“45,” Cartman conceded to cooly. His heart pounded in excitement, but he couldn’t let it show. Kyle wouldn’t agree if he didn’t think he cam out on top.

“79.” Kyle smirked and settled down comfortably. He spooned up a glob of cheese with one of the fries, eyes never leaving Cartman’s. Cartman’s heart skipped.

“We’ll go fifty-fifty, like a proper partnership.”

“I want sixty.”

“So, does this mean you’re considering it?” Cartman retained himself from bouncing.

Kyle hesitated. “I’m not…” He exhaled sharply, his lips flapping in frustration. “Dammit, okay yeah, maybe, but I have conditions.”

“I can do conditions!” Cartman sat up professionally and nodded encouragingly.

“Okay, first things first, I get final say on everything, and I really mean _everything_. Not a _single_ thing goes forward without my explicit prior approval.”

“Okay, like I said before, this will be on your terms, Kyle.” Kyle nodded.

“We’ll split _all_ proceeds 65/35, and don’t you dare try to argue this one. You started this without my consent, and if I wanted, I could walk out right now and sue the hell out of you. Don’t you dare for a moment think I can’t. I may hate my dad’s fucking guts for it, but he _is_ a lawyer.”

“Jeez, Kyle, calm down! There’s no need to go full crazy on me! I agreed!”

“If you could have just _spoken_ to me first—!”

“It was an impulsive moment!”

“My third condition is that I want you to make an announcement to the entire school!”

“You— wait, what? You want me to,” Cartman blinked, taken aback, “to announce our partnership to the entire school? That’s some pretty assertiveadvertising, I’m impressed? Surprised? Shocked!”

“No, Dumbass, I don’t want you to announce our… ‘partnership’.” Kyle rolled his eyes and casually ate another fry. “I’ll have an embarrassing speech written out for you by Friday morning. I want you to prove your loyalty, and that you’re taking me seriously.”

“Of course,” Cartman agreed easily, keeping his voice gentle. Kyle was like a wild animal in many ways, easily jostled and such. “Of course, Kyle, whatever you want me to say, I’ll say it.”

“You will?” Kyle spluttered, choking back a surprised laugh.

“I will. I’ll do anything for you.” They both stopped breathing. Kyle looked out the window awkwardly and chewed the inside of his cheek. He squinted at Cartman through the edges of his eyes.

“For my participation,” he asserted uncertainly.

“Yes.” Cartman coughed. “Is that all?”

“No, I also want to talk to Bebe.”

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<+>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Kenny McCormick didn’t really know what he was doing with his life. It all just felt so hopeless. He knew that none of it really mattered. He was just going to die again, and again, and again. He used to have aspirations, but he had lost them somewhere along the way. All he really cared about anymore was making enough to keep his sister, Karen, fed and maybe occasionally chasing after something that numbed the all-encompassing emptiness he felt in his gut.

Kenny shoved his hands his pockets and leaned against a brick wall, planted firmly in the middle of the bad side of town. He had been walking home from a late shift at the City Wok, a dead-end part-time job that he kept if only for its consistency and his irritating sense of loyalty, when he had just ended up feeling… tired. That’s how Kenny felt most days actually, tired.

It wasn’t the kind of tired where he could barely stay on his feet, the kind of tired where he longed for his bed, it was more existential than that. He was just exhausted of life, already having had experienced enough for several. His friends were all so caught up in their meaningless bullshit, and it all just felt so pointless. He sighed and pushed off from the wall. He needed to run to the store on his way home to buy food for breakfast.

He hummed gently to himself, the theme that would follow him when he played princess growing up. It was a cheery little tune that forced him to look happy, the kind of tune that chased away the dark, which he needed since the streetlights on this street hadn’t been replaced after they died out about two and a half weeks ago. He tripped on the cracked sidewalk and cursed as he slammed face first into a telephone pole.

He moaned and pressed his fingers against his nose. He had to stem the bleeding, so he threw his head back, breathing through his mouth and occasionally swallowing so he wouldn’t choke, and started feeling for displacement and breaks. His nose wasn’t broken, thankfully. It was just going to be bruised for a few days, which sucked, but Kenny was used to it. He was just grateful, he looked at the telephone pole, that there hadn’t been any exposed nails or stakes or even, given his luck, explosives. It wouldn’t be the first time… or even the second.

There was a paper splotched lightly with his blood fluttering lightly on the pole’s surface. Kenny sent a quick prayer that he hadn’t ruined some poor little girl’s missing cat poster. He leaned forward, squinting. He probably needed glasses, but he was choosing to ignore that for the moment. It was a job posting.

Mephesto’s Laboratories

Assistant wanted

Must:

  * Have a Associate’s degree or higher in biochemistry
  * Have a propensity for and willingness to engage in ASS related sciences
  * Must be compassionate and a hard-worker
  * Not have any associations with the police, CIA, FBI, or military
  * Have an ass of proper proportions



At the bottom of the page was a bunch of rip-away slips containing a contact number. One of them had been taken. Kenny shuddered, remembering the mad ass science that had once ran rampant in his younger years. He quickly ripped the second half of the paper off and crumpled the numbers into a ball, which he shoved in his pocket.

He circled the pole and continued on his way home. He was about halfway down the side-walk when he stopped and raced back. He tore the rest of the flier off the pole and shoved it in his pocket with its other half. He couldn’t sleep knowing these fliers were posted for any desperate asshole to stumble into. He slumped his shoulders and resigned the rest of his night to flier hunting.


	4. Kyle's Heavy Decision

“Kyle, I need to talk to you.” Stan grabbed his super best friend by the arm, and before he could protest, dragged him down the hall to the bathroom. He knew for a fact, with what he wanted to ask, there was no possible way he was going to wrangle a straight answer out of his friend if there was even so much as a single witness to their confrontation.

“Stan, I can walk on my own!” Kyle pulled his arm back and rubbed agitatedly at his wrist. He threw open the bathroom door and held it open with thin lips. Stan winced in apology and ducked inside to check for feet under the bathroom stalls. The room was empty, so he quickly reached around Kyle and locked the door. Kyle crossed his arms, already closing himself off, which was just great.

“Kyle,” Stan began carefully, needing Kyle to be as receptive as possible, “you know that you can always divulge anything in me, right?”

“Um, yeah? Where are you going with this?” Kyle’s face pinched in clear discomfort. His eyes darted to the door, and his feet shuffled nervously. He was ready to run. This, Stan knew, did not bode well for the outcome of the question he was about to ask. Stan leaned his hip against one of the sinks and folded his arms to mimic some air of authority. Kyle’s eyes squinted. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m just going to come out and ask,” Stan closed his eyes to brace himself, not sure if he could even say such outlandish and disgusting words. He inhaled. “Are you dating Cartman?”

“WHAT!?” Kyle slammed back into the door, his entire face splotched in angry red patches, darkening almost purple. He was hyperventilating.

“I took Wendyl out last night,” Stan watched Kyle’s face carefully. “We went to Boca’s.” He was sweating.

“Oh my God.” Kyle’s hands were in his hat, and he was pulling at his hair. Stan jumped forward and grabbed his wrists. Kyle clenched his fists, though he stopped pulling, and looked away. “He said he wanted to try being friends and was trying to bribe me with food. It was absolutely _not_ a date.” Kyle gagged at the thought. Stan nodded thoughtfully.

“Okay, so you’re not dating?”

“No!”

“Okay.” Stan gently loosened Kyle’s fingers and pulled his hands down. He held his hands carefully. His hands felt so small and fragile in his grip. Something deep in his gut flared up. “So like, is Cartman ‘cool’ now, or whatever?” Stan could feel the distaste rolling over his tongue, and he knew that Kyle heard it.

“No, he’s still as much of an asshole as ever.” Stan tried not to sigh in relief. He wasn’t even sure why he felt relieved in the first place. Logically, he should be rooting for Cartman’s redemption. He scrunched his eyebrows together; he’d definitely have to sort through his tangled feelings on the matter later, when he was alone.

“Well um…” Stan didn’t really know how to word it, “how was the meet up?”

“It was hilarious actually, in a stupid kind of way. My dad was so pissed when he showed up,” Kyle chuckled, though whether he was truly amused was hard to tell, “on a motorcycle of all things.”

“You didn’t get on it, did you?” Stan felt cold with a sudden fear. Kyle’s survival instincts were not exactly… the best, and he was so small… and Cartman was… Cartman.

“I didn’t die.” Kyle shrugged.

“Kyle!” Stan grabbed him by his shoulders and shook vigorously. Kyle didn’t blink.

“Stan.” He settled his hands over Stan’s and waited patiently until he stopped shaking him. “I don’t plan on repeating the experience anytime soon, so you can relax.”

Stan nodded and exhaled. “And then you went to Boca’s, right? What happened after he made an ass of himself at Boca’s? Please tell me you went right home.”

“No, we went somewhere else because I didn’t want to go home and talk to my dad yet. I made Cartman buy me cheese fries, then he demonstrated his complete lack of respect for me as a person, and proposed that we enter a business arrangement together, like in the ‘good old days’.” Kyle readjusted his backpack and shoved his hands in his pockets. Stan scrunched his fists and released the built up tension, exercising his patience in a way that he was certain Wendyl would be proud of. Whatever Cartman wanted from Kyle didn’t sit well with him.

“You refused, right?” Kyle didn’t answer. “Kyle, you didn’t accept the proposal, did you?” Stan would have been disappointed in the answer that Kyle’s eyes gave him, but he was already more than well aware of Kyle’s limited common sense and restraint. He had already known what the truth was before he asked. “Kyle?”

“Nothing is in stone. There’s still someone I need to talk to before I decide anything, and Cartman still has to prove himself to me.”

“Kyle, I really don’t like this. What did he ask you to agree to?”

“Don’t worry about it, Stan.” Kyle laughed and patted him on the shoulder. He had to pop up on his toes to do so. He was so very small. Stan worried about him. “I don’t really think I’m going to end up agreeing to it anyway. I’m just playing along to make Cartman humiliate himself on Friday.” He smirked wickedly.

“You’re horrible.” Kyle threw his head back and laughed, and there was no denying the malicious glint in his eyes. Stan couldn’t say he blamed him. Cartman, after all, was always, in every circumstance, the worst in every possible way.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<+>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

“Thank you coming to see me.” Mr. Mackey smiled non-threateningly. He was slight and old, yet he somehow always came off as being deliberately non-threatening. It must just be a counsellor thing. Cartman threw his backpack over one of the chairs in front of Mr. Mackey’s desk and threw himself down on the other one. It creaked under his weight. His nose scrunched, refusing to be embarrassed.

“Yeah, sure, what is this about?” He didn’t think he had done anything to warrant being called into the counsellor’s office, and frankly he was offended to have his time wasted in such a way. He didn’t really appreciate having noses stuck where they had no concern, which he felt was very reasonable and not at all defensive.

Mr. Mackey smiled and hefted a black canvas bag from behind his desk and set it on the desk. He flipped open the flap holding it shut and quickly checked the contents. He nodded in contentment and let the flap fall shut once more. Cartman’s heart raced excitedly. It was a camera, one of the nicer school cameras, too. “I noticed you signed up for the yearbook again this year,” Mr. Mackey nodded encouragingly, “so we’re going to check out your camera now. M’kay?”

“Yeah,” Cartman nodded. A school-issue contract was slid across the desk to him. He eagerly snatched it up and quickly skimmed through it for any rules that might have been added since last year, not that he was particularly worried that he’d be incapable of taking care of this beautiful piece of equipment. “Aren’t the cameras for the newspaper and yearbook clubs supposed to be passed out next week though?” Cartman asked conversationally as he reached for a blue pen.

“Yes.”

“Hm?” Cartman stopped midway through his first set of initials.

“You are very talented, Eric, and it would be a shame for you not to pursue something you showed a passion for last year, m’kay.” Mr. Mackey arranged the strap on top of the bag and slid it forward. “After all the progress you’ve made with your grades and your behavior, we, the school, want to show that we support and trust you, m’kay.”

“Um,” he didn’t know what to say. “Wow, thank you.” His eyes were wet. He dropped his head and scribbled his signature on three separate lines. He quickly took a moment to breathe and compose himself. He held out the signed sheet with a broad grin. “Your trust in me is not misplaced.”

Mr. Mackey very gently took the sheet from him, quickly checked it over, and filed it away. “Just take care of the camera and follow the school’s guidelines on appropriate imagery. M’kay?” He winked conspiratorially at him.

“Absolutely, sir!” Cartman’s hands whipped out and pulled the camera into his arms. He cradled the bag in his lap and peeked inside. It _was_ one of the nice ones, one of the newer ones that had everything still in tact. He burbled over, wrestling down the temptation to giggle.

Cartman glanced up at the clock, he had about two minutes to make it to class. He grimaced. Mr. Mackey noticed and held up a patient finger. He quickly wrote out an excuse slip and handed it to him. Cartman nodded thankfully, not willing to verbally thank the same person more than once in such a short stint of time, and gathered up his backpack. He carefully positioned the sling for the camera bag over his shoulder, planning a trip to his locker before heading to class to drop it off.

As he grabbed the door handle to leave, Mr. Mackey cleared his throat. “Oh, and Eric?” Cartman turned. “You have a bright future. M’kay?” He nodded mutely, overwhelmed and unused to praise, strangely enough given how incredible he was, and scurried out of the room.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<+>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

The bell announcing the end of fourth period rang, and Kyle was immediately at his desk, looming over him. It was a strange feeling to be loomed over by Kyle Broflovski. Apparently he hadn’t been moving fast enough for his liking because Kyle started snatching up Cartman’s papers and pens and shoved them haphazardly into his arms.

“We’re going to talk to Bebe.” Kyle grabbed him by the wrist and hauled him to his feet with an offensive grunt of exertion. He was almost certain that he had exaggerated the noise, to remind him that he was bigger boned, even after he had implied he would stop directly mentioning it. Cartman cemented his jaw shut and let himself be forcefully guided out into the hall. Kyle was surprisingly strong for a man of his stature, but of course, with years of memories of deadly punches, he already knew that.

Bebe, at the fountain across the hall, smiled awkwardly, her eyes growing wider and wider with every step toward her they took. She looked at Cartman, trying to communicate something with only her eyes, but he couldn’t tell what she wanted him to pick up on. She just kinda looked gassy. They stopped in front of Bebe, and Kyle let go of his wrist so suddenly that he felt as though something had been robbed from him.

“Hi, Kyle!” Bebe threw a lock of blonde hair over her shoulder, revealing her neck, and smiled prettily. Kyle shoved his hands in his pockets and forced himself to smile non-threateningly, a much different non-threatening smile than a counsellor might have; Kyle’s non-threatening smile was quite threatening.

“Bebe, a word?” Kyle asked. Bebe glanced at Cartman, confused. He shrugged, figuring it was better not to involve himself at this point. He sort of wished he had spoken to Bebe beforehand, but he hadn’t, so there wasn’t much to dod about it at this point.

“Sure, Sweetie,” Bebe fluttered her long lashes at Kyle. “What do you need?” She laid a manicured hand on Kyle’s shoulder. Kyle glanced down at her hand but otherwise didn’t really react.

“Right. So,” Kyle dropped his voice and leaned closer. “I need to ascertain your intentions.” Seeing their faces so close, it made one of his ribs ache. Cartman glanced around the hall, to check if anyone was taking any sort of interest in their little conversation. For the most part, no one really seemed to care, but Cartman did catch one set of eyes squinted in their direction. Craig Tucker, Bebe’s boyfriend’s best friend, slowed his pace, his eyes locked on the fingers Bebe drummed on Kyle’s shoulder.

“My intentions?” Bebe laughed lightly, pulling her hand back to cover her mouth with false politeness. Cartman quickly replaced her hand with his own (Kyle stiffened but didn’t shake him off) and glanced back at Craig through the side of his eye. Craig shook his head and slipped into the classroom he and Kyle had just come from. “I only have the purest intentions.”

“Cartman says you paid him fifty dollars for a picture of my butt.” Bebe choked.

“He did?” She craned her neck over Kyle’s shoulder and blinked at Cartman. “Why would you do that?” She asked sweetly, all confused and coy. It pissed him off.

“Because you did, Bebe.” Cartman glared at her. “I told him you’d be interested in buying more.” Bebe’s head jerked back, and she blinked rapidly. She whipped her head back to Kyle, who was incredibly still and quiet.

“Kyle,” she said softly, “Are you interested in selling?” Her eyes glinted, but she blinked down the light and tilted her head delicately. Kyle sighed.

“Depends.”

“Depends on what?” Bebe breathed coaxingly, as if afraid of frightening him away. Maybe she was. He tongue darted out, wetting her lips while she waited for his response, her eyes occasionally darting away from his face and down his body.

“What are your intentions?” Kyle crossed his arms, subtly rolling Cartman’s hand off his shoulder. Cartman shoved his hands in his pockets. “What do you want pictures of my butt for?” Kyle looked away. “It’s not _porn_ , is it?”

“Of course not!” Bebe blurted, her cheeks burning red. “I am not such a degenerate reprobate!” She smacked her palm against one of the lockers, making both boys jump nearly out of their skin. “I would _never,_ ” she hissed, “engage in such blasphemy!”

“Um,” Kyle cleared his throat. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I just have to be sure I’m not spreading um…”

“Licentious material?” Bebe propped her hands on her hips and popped her hip to the side. “Kyle, your ass is a work of perfect art. My only intention is to admire and worship as such.” She stuck her nose in the air and refused to look at either of them, presumably too offended to stomach the mere sight of their faces.

“Worship?” Kyle took a step back.

“Metaphorically.” Bebe dropped her hands and intertwined her fingers innocently. “Kyle, you know I’m very fashionably and aesthetically minded,” Kyle nodded and she echoed his nod, “your ass is inspirational, and my only intent is to expand my creative potential.”

“You… bought a picture of my butt… to design clothes?” Kyle’s knee twitched as he struggled to process anything Bebe had said to him. Cartman met her eyes again, and this time they held a warning for him to hold his tongue.

“Yep!” Bebe chirped. Her voice dripped disingenuously. It was a wonder that Kyle seemed to only barely notice.

“And you’re interested in buying more?”

“Well, _of course_ I would pay you if you modeled for me!” Bebe giggled. “Silly!”

“Uh huh.”

“I know a few others who would be interested in your modeling.” Bebe leaned closer cautiously. “You have the perfect body,” he eyes slowly and openly drank him in, “for it.” Kyle visibly recoiled.

“I’ll uh,” he stumbled back, his cheeks by this point painfully red (Cartman ached for the camera in his backpack, wanting to immortalize that face forever, but Kyle would be gone by the time he could pull it out). “I’ll think about it.” He spun unevenly on his heel and scurried down the hall. Bebe followed him unashamedly with her eyes.

“Make sure he agrees,” Bebe said passively. Cartman lowered his eyes to her.

“Is it porn, though, like actually?” She glanced at him and shrugged.

“No.” Bebe quickly checked herself in a compact.

“What is it then? You can tell me.” Cartman softened his voice to a near saccharine level. Bebe stared at him.

“Like I’ve said before, an ass like that deserves to be admired and worshipped. Of course,” She grinned, “you’ve already figured that out for yourself, haven’t you?” She breezed past him.

“What does that mean?” She didn’t turn back, merely waved to him over her shoulder. They were the only one in the hall. “Bebe? GODDAMMIT! What did you mean by that?!” She rounded the corner and the bell rang. “Dammit.”

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<+>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Stan hummed contentedly as he carded his fingers through Wendyl’s soft hair. Wendyl closed his eyes and laid his head on Stan’s shoulder. The two of them sat beneath a tree in the courtyard, passively watching various lunchtime activities, such as soccer, and poorly hidden make-outs, and like three other people eating. Stan took a bite of the hemp-butter and strawberry jelly sandwich his dad had watched him make that morning. It was gross, otherwise he would have offered to share.

“I’m joining a protest in North Park this weekend,” Wendyl informed him. Stan nodded slowly and unworked his jaw.

“What’s it about?”

“Raisins.” Wendyl leaned over, placing a steadying hand on his knee that sent shivers racing up his spine, and took a bite of his sandwich and scrunched his nose. “Oh, that’s awful. Why do you eat this?”

“My dad doesn’t believe in peanuts anymore apparently. He gets worse every fucking day, I swear!” Stan smooshed his sandwich back in the reusable sandwich bag it had come from, planning to toss it before he went home. “Anyway, why are you going all the way up to North Park to protest Raisins? Aren’t they here?”

“Yes, but the corporate offices are in North Park, and they’ve been going pretty hard on their advertising lately, which is hugely inappropriate! We’re going to picket to show that we will not stand for their petty exploitation of young, vulnerable, women’s bodies!”

“Yeah…” Stan shifted a root out from underneath him and laid his head on top of Wendyl’s, “You show them, Wends.”

“You should go with me.”

“I wish I could, but my dad would never let me. He agreed not to make me stay up during the school week, but he wants me guarding the farm over the weekend.” Stan’s spine felt like jelly.

“Stanley,” Wendyl grabbed his chin, “you should stand up for something once in a while.”

“I stand up for stuff!” Stan protested. Wendyl chuckled condescendingly, and that stung. It injured the part of him that told him he was doing alright as a man. “I do! I stand up for all kinds of stuff!”

“Like what?”

“Like—,”

A solid weight dropped itself in his lap. Stan twitched and looked down, instantly relaxing at the sight of green-hatted head of his super best friend. Kyle laid there quietly for a moment, his eyes closed, two sets of eyes glued to his face. There was something unsteady about the way his jaw sat. Stan felt considerably less relaxed.

“Hey, dude, what’s up?” Stan uncoordinatedly patted Kyle’s head with the hand that wasn’t currently tangled in the softest strands of hair known to man. Kyle grumbled unintelligibly and turned his face away. Stan waited, only to be met by silence. He sighed and laid his head back against the three behind him, rather fond of the rough feeling of the bark on his scalp.

“If you decide you _want_ to join a just cause,” Wendyl started after also waiting a patient beat, “we’ll be leaving right after school Friday.”

“We?” He hated it, but that one little word had felt like a punch directly in his tender hear. He knew he was being irrational, but a surge of jealously had welled up inside his stomach. He successfully swallowed it down. “Who else is going?” He asked calmly.

“Oh, just Heidi. She’s been a real inspiration these days.” Wendyl shifted and laid a hand on Stan’s chest. “It would really make a good impression if you came with us. You always manage to woo people with your good boy charms.” Stan’s chest tightened with bubbles, and his cheeks warmed pleasantly.

“I’ll talk to my dad tonight. There’s no way he can be upset about one weekend.”

“As if!” Kyle barked, startling the both of them. “If there’s one thing I know, it’s that dad’s can find a way to be irrationally pissed about anything!” Kyle threw his hands up in exasperation, accidentally smacking Wendyl’s leg. “Sorry, Wendy.” He yanked his hands back.

“Wendyl,” Stan murmured.

“Sorry, Wendyl…” Kyle mumbled.

“It’s fine,” Wendyl sighed. He looked gently up at Stan, who quickly pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek. Wendyl chuckled and captured his lips. It was nice. Kissing Wendyl was always nice, even if right now he sort of tasted like hemp-butter. “By the way,” Wendyl continued as they separated, “I’m going to go ahead and make you a teeshirt for the rally, okay?”

“It needs to be extra large, I bulked up over the summer.” Wendyl nodded. “And can it be in red?”

“Sure, I don’t see why it couldn’t.” Wendyl shrugged, which tickled because his shoulder was pressed against Stan’s rib. “If you come, we should take your truck. It would be easier to load everything up in the truck bed than the backseat of my car.”

“Fair enough.” Stan shrugged, not really caring much either way. “You’re providing the snacks, though.”

“How do you like hummus?”

“Wends, I love hummus.” Kyle snorted. Stan glared down at him. Kyle shook his head and dismissively flapped his hand up at him. “What’s so funny, Kyle?”

“It’s not really funny, I just thought about how Cartman would rip into you for professing a love for hummus. He’d link it to you being gay or something probably.”

“He wouldn’t be wrong.” Stan shrugged. “I _am_ gay…umm… _today_ at least? Why are you even thinking about Cartman anyway?”

“Unfortunate circumstances,” Kyle grumbled, smacking Stan’s hip with his head.

“How unfortunate?” Stan sat up abruptly, jostling the two heads rested on him. They grumbled in discontent.” Did he corner you? I’ll kick his ass if he’s trying to extort you for something!” Stan curled his fists, his blood pumping.

“Jeez Stan, nothing happened. He’s just been irritating lately. You’ve been on edge lately.” Kyle pat his stomach and smiled. “I won’t stop you from kicking his ass, though. Anyways, Wendyl, what’s this ‘just cause’ you were talking about before?”

“Oh!” Wendyl sat up. “We’re doing a protest in North Park at the Raisins Corporate building.” Kyle nodded thoughtfully as Wendyl launched into his passionate rant about the violation of bodily rights and womanly autonomy. Stan frowned, accidentally tuning out his boyfriend’s speech, which he knew he’d regret sorely later. It’s just that… Kyle was avoiding something. He kept twitching, and fighting, and his foot tapped incessantly, ill at rest. He’d have to corner him again. Which he hated doing, but he felt he had to. He couldn’t just leave his super best friend to suffer in silence.

Lunch ended, and all three of them walked to Wendyl’s class with him. Stan held Wendyl by the waist and they both shared a chaste kiss before Wendyl ducked into the room. Kyle cleared his throat awkwardly, and Stan rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. He glanced around quickly, wondering if now might actually be a good time to corner him, while his worry was still fresh.

“Stan?” Kyle hummed absently, beating him to the punch.

“Yes, Kyle?”

“What would you think,” Kyle started walking away as he spoke, “if I were to do some modeling?” Stan blinked. Kyle was halfway down the hall by the time his brain caught up to him. Stan scrambled to catch up to him, his sneakers squeaking on the linoleum, which he saw Kyle wince at with his entire body.

“Like in a magazine? I didn’t know you were interested in that kinda thing.” Stan scratched his wrist as Kyle shrugged. It was overly casual. Why was he pretending like this? Why was he hiding his emotions from him? Stan didn’t like this. They were supposed to share everything with each other.

“It would be sort of like that, I suppose.” Kyle licked his lip and tilted his head. “It’s a recent thing.”

“Kyle,” Stan was really struggling more than he felt he had any right to, “don’t get mad when I ask you this, but um…”

“But what, Stan?” Kyle glared at him. Stan sighed.

“Is that what Cartman wanted you to do?”

“Don’t worry about what Cartman wants me to do.” Kyle shoved his hands in his pockets. “Bebe’s the one that asked me to do it. She wants me to model for like her fashion portfolio or something like that… I think.” Kyle shrugged again. “She offered to pay me, and I figured it would be easy money. I just wanted to know if your opinion of me would change if I decided to do it.”

“Kyle, my opinion of you is set in stone. You’re my favorite person. You know this.”

Kyle smiled sadly. “Thanks, Stan.”

“Kyle, you knew that, right?” Kyle was quiet. “Kyle?”

“Yes, I know that. You’re my favorite person, too. My super best friend.” Kyle grinned and held out his first to bump. Stan bumped his fist, but it felt hollow. Kyle was still holding something back.

“Dude, are you okay? It seems like something is bothering you,” Stan stated carefully. Kyle’s eyes darkened. He stopped walking.

“I’m fine,” he breathed. “I’m just thinking about a few things right now, but I promise I’m fine. I’ll _tell_ you if I need your help, okay? So you can stop worrying.” Stan doubted Kyle would really say anything; making Kyle confess to needing anything out of anyone could be like pulling teeth at times, but—

“Okay.”


	5. Craig's Gentle Reminder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cartman just might have Kyle convinced, but does he know what to do with himself once he does? No.

Friday morning came too soon, and Stan was exhausted. He had told his dad about his plans for the weekend, and to say that the conversation hadn’t exactly gone well would be an understatement. He had dragged him outside to ‘talk’ on the front stoop, and they had ‘talked’ the entire night. Their _‘talk’_ had consisted mainly of Randy ranting about family ‘tegrity and his responsibility— nay _duty_ to the family, to the farm. Stan hadn’t been able to slip a word in edgewise until the sun had risen, by which point he announced that he didn’t care one way or the other about the stupid farm and left for school, still dressed in his clothes from the day before.

He was late. His stupid dad had ranted for so long this morning that he was legitimately late. The halls were empty, and his first period classroom felt forever away. He suffered a hearty groan and began his arduous journey, shuffling ever-tenuously toward the distant door, feeling with every step, his head cloudy, that he was making hardly any progress at all; it was a wonder he had even made it to the school in one piece.

The door next to him swung open, nearly taking him out, and a wave of other teens spilled out into the hall. Stan stumbled back, dizzied by the disruption to his original straight-shot course. Another door opened, and Stan found himself drowning in indistinguishable conversation and shuffling bodies in the hall when he knew for a fact they were absolutely not supposed to be there. He pressed himself to the wall, not having the energy to fight against the current which fought to sweep him away from his target.

“Stan!” An over-joyous voice called out to him. “What are you doing?” Pale hands latched onto his arm, tugging him away from the wall. He swayed, but managed to stay upright. Kyle glimmered up at him. “You’re going to miss the assembly if you don’t hurry.”

“Assembly?” Stan repeated.

“Didn’t you hear the announcement? We actually convinced PC Principal to hold an assembly.” Kyle laughed freely, his excitement bubbling over.

“What?”

“Dude,” Kyle waved a hand in his face. “Remember the speech I told you I was writing for Cartman?” Stan blinked blankly. Kyle stared at him dejectedly and sighed. “He’s going to read it, come on.” He proceeded to drag him to the gym. Stan followed numbly. Cartman was going to give a speech? He scrunched his brows together. Right… he frowned, this was supposed to be some sort of test or something… which would be why Kyle couldn’t stop bouncing.

Kyle pushed him gently and set him on the very first bench, which was probably for the best; he felt about ready to pass out and preferred the possibility of simply falling to the ground over tumbling down the entire body of bleachers. “KENNY!” Kyle shouted in his ear, jumping up and waving his arms in the air to gesture to a spot beside him. Kenny nodded and started in their direction. Kyle flopped full-limbed like a graceless baby deer and resumed bouncing, the metal beneath him creaking endearingly. Stan smiled through a yawn.

Students piled in, and the gym slowly filled. Stan passively watched them pass, his eyes struggling to stay open. It was so emotionally straining listening to his dad rant, and after an entire night of it, he sought death… that felt dramatic. He shook his head clear and let his eyes wander back over the crowd. They landed, for whatever reason, most possibly her bright red sweater, on Bebe Stevens, who, though clinging to Clyde Donovan’s arm, kept glancing in his direction— no, not _his_ direction, _Kyle’s_ , subtly posturing. Kyle paid her no mind, his eyes eagerly fixed on the empty podium in the center of the gym.

Huh.

“This is going to be so humiliating!” Kyle raved, pulling out his phone. “I bet he’ll choke over his tongue!”

Stan nodded absently. His eyes had wandered over Bebe’s shoulder, where they locked with the blank, blue eyes of Craig Tucker. Stan’s eyes narrowed. Why was he staring— glaring at them? Craig’s glare flicked momentarily to Bebe, and for a moment, he seemed to determine within himself to march up to them, fists tightening and middle fingers twitching. He was only able to take about two steps, however, before a wild tuft of blond hair pulled him to a pause and pointed in the opposite direction, God praise his boyfriend Tweek. Whatever he had wanted, Stan was almost entirely certain he didn’t want to have any part in it.

“Cartman’s not here yet,” Kyle said. “You don’t think he’s chickening out, do you?”

Stan shrugged, “I dunno, man,” his attention grabbed by sharp tittering over his shoulder. It made his head throb. He wished they could just be quiet. The entire gym was far too loud. He pressed his fingers into his temples, rubbing soothing circles, and let his fingers slowly wander down to his ears and cover them, muffling, at least in part, the horrible sound surrounding him. He longed faintly for a stiff drink, just to numb the air around him.

“You know,” dimly, a girls voice drifted between his fingers, “I never really thought to look before, but damn! She wasn’t messing when she told us.”

“I know what you mean! Kyle’s usually just kind of… eh,” Stan let his hands fall to his neck, “but I definitely wouldn’t mind getting my hands on my own slice of that perky perfection.” Stan sat up, glancing at his friend, who was completely oblivious to the giggling gaggle right behind him, searching the crowd with a hand held to his forehead like a visor.

“Ugh, I’m almost drooling just thinking about it!” Another girl groaned, “It’s not fair for her to keep it all to herself!” What was going on? Were they still talking about Kyle? Stan turned in his seat, ready to confront the girls behind them for answers.

Kyle grabbed him and with an eager grin, stealing his attention, and shook him vigorously. “Maybe he’s so nervous he’s puking his guts up!”

“Who?”

“Cartman!”

“Right, right, Cartman is ditching the speech or something, right?” Stan asked. Kyle folded his lips in between his teeth.

“Maybe.”

“I’m not surprised. Oh well,” Stan raised his shoulders and held his palms out dismissively, “I guess you’re just going to have to turn down his proposition.”

“Right,” Kyle snorted, shaking his head, “as if I was going to accept in the first place.” He drew his head back loftily and exhaled sharply. “I’m going to be pretty pissed if I don’t get my video, though.” Kyle waggled his phone at him.

“There will always be another opportunity to see Cartman humiliate himself,” Stan said. “His entire existence is just one fat joke.”

Kyle snickered. “Yeah, it is.”

“Hi, Stan!” The most melodic voice sang in his ear. Stan jounced, a pleasant, crooked smile quickly spreading across his red cheeks at the absolute vision of perfect beauty smiling back at him.

“Good morning, Babe.” His eyes fluttered shut gently as soft lips chastely pressed against his own. He was going to be filled with tingling bubbles in his stomach and down his arms for probably about the next three hours.

“Hi, Kyle. How are you feeling?” Inquisitive, dark eyes leaned across Stan’s chest and roamed over Kyle’s sharp features. Kyle bristled, incredibly sensitive to personal invasions, especially ones born of concern. Stan’s eyes followed in matching expression, suddenly remembering that he had also been concerned only two days ago. Kyle fidgeted with his phone, his fragile fingertips dancing erratically over the smooth surface.

“Good morning, Wendyl,” Kyle hummed smoothly.

“Wendy,” Stan corrected.

“Good morning, Wendy, I’m well. How about yourself?” Kyle smiled thinly.

“I’m doing wonderfully! Thank you for asking!” Wendy sang, plopping her head on Stan’s shoulder. Kyle just nodded and looked down at his phone, glaring at the blank screen. Whatever had been wrong with him before was definitely still wrong, and he knew it was entirely to do with Cartman. How could he broach the topic again without his friend shutting down? He wished his brain would actually click on and provide him with the answer.

“Stan,” Wendy murmured, purposefully low enough that only he would hear, “keep an eye on Kyle.” He glanced down at her; she stared straight ahead, her fingers curling into his arm. “The girls in this town are surprisingly ravenous.” Stan stiffened, desperate to glance at the girls sat behind him, but he couldn’t. They would notice, or Kyle would ask what he was doing, and then they would definitely notice him peering at them. He stared staunchly forward,at the empty podium in the center of gym.

“Oh!” Kyle sat up taller and smacked Stan’s arm, pointing with a vibrating finger. “There he is, and he has the paper! Oh my God, he’s actually going to do it!” Kyle somehow managed to squeal under his breath. “This is gonna be so good!” He scrambled to pull his phone up.

“He’s going to go off script. He’ll say something to embarrass _you_.”

“Shh.”

Their principal, the same one they had had since elementary school, walked calmly up to the podium, his hands tucked under his armpits. Stan sighed, but he held his tongue. Kyle fumbled with his phone and started his recording. PC Principal cleared his throat. The room went dead quiet, not a single soul amongst them wiling to risk bringing the wrath of PC Principal down upon them.

“Students of South Park High, thank you for joining me today for this very impromptu assembly,” he began, his voice clear and staccato-ed in such a way that made it carry all the way to the back of the room. “One of your peers has decided to come forward with a very brave heart, to confess and make reparations. It takes insurmountable courage to face and own up to one’s mistakes and transgressions. So, let’s show our support and love towards a fellow student, Eric Cartman.”

A hush fell over the gathered student body.

“Big round of applause everybody.” The principal took a step back, and scattered, confused claps echoed off the walls. Somebody coughed. Kyle tapped with his foot, both hands occupied with keeping his phone steady. Stan sat on his hands, still as a stone.

Cartman visibly gathered himself and took to the stand. He carefully spread his paper out flat atop the podium, sucked in a deep but shuddering breath, and wiped a fat droplet of sweat off his pink face. “Ahem.” He turned to his left, where the principal stood tall and indomitable, eyes fixedly not glancing out toward the crowd. “Thank you, PC Principal.” His voice wavered for a moment. “Your words are quite inspiring, and they mean a lot to me.” Cartman pulled at the neck of his shirt and let out a nervous bleat.

“A-HEM,” he cleared a large ball of phlegm from the back of his throat. Kyle gagged. “Friends, classmates, country men— a-and _women_ , I come before you today with a heart so heavily overburdened with guilt, and a pained conscience begging me to apologize.” He kept his eyes trained down, each word clearly a struggle. Stan glanced at Kyle, who was barely restraining his bouncing. This was, at the very least, now that it was happening, going to be entertaining. He grinned.

“First things first, I’m just going to come right out and say it. I—,” Cartman paused, his eyes darting rapidly as he reread the line he had paused on, “I, Eric Theodore Cartman, am seventeen years old and I still… I still wet the bed… every night.” Stan blinked at Kyle. Kyle’s eyes glittered. “It’s true,” Cartman choked, “I make peepee in my pants, every goddamned night.” Stray snickers floated out of the crowd, not a single one of them taking this seriously. Why would they?

“Kyle,” Stan hissed, “what is this?”

“Shh.”

“I also fantasize about licking my own butt.” Cartman paused again to sigh heavily, as if he had the entire weight upon his shoulders and knew that that was the way things were supposed to be. “Sometimes I stay awake for hours, just thinking about how sweet it would be if I could shove my tongue up my butthole and taste my own yummy, yummy farts.” Kyle giggled. PC Principal visibly bristled, his jaw falling agape as he turned to stare at Cartman. They clearly hadn’t shown him the script beforehand.

“Once, I ordered boogers off the black market so I could eat them.” The girls behind Stan squealed in disgust because clearly eating boogers, not licking one’s own butthole, was where they drew the line. Wendy shifted against him, straightening to ogle Kyle in pure dumb-fuddlement. Stan was tempted to do the same, but his eyes refused to shift away from Cartman’s horrible sweating cheeks. “I liked the taste of my own so much that I had to know what others’ tasted like, too.”

PC Principal strode back toward the podium. “I also play with dolls!” Cartman gripped the sides of the podium until his knuckles turned white, eyes flicked up at the crowd, unfocused and unsteady. “I make fun of people like Butters for doing wimpy, girly things, but I still play with dolls. I never stopped! We have tea parties, and sometimes I dress up because it’s one of the few times I feel good about myself, or like I belong in a group, even if I know it’s not real!” He looked frantic.

“Holy fuck,” Kyle whispered, “I didn’t think he actually still did that.”

“Some days, I fucking hate myself.” Kyle’s eyebrows furrowed. PC Principal stopped. “I think about dying sometimes, about how nobody will miss me. I know I used to cry suicide wolf for attention, but sometimes I thought about actually doing it. I push other people down so I can feel better about myself, so I can desperately catch just a gasp of air before we both go under again.” Cartman looked down, falling silent.

“I… didn’t write that,” Kyle mumbled, his face pinched up in confusion. “He was supposed to confess to being a fat fuck.” Stan stared at Cartman. His shoulders were shaking, and he looked like he couldn’t breathe. He watched him shake his head, then go still. Suddenly, his head jerked up and his eyes latched with Kyle’s. Kyle gasped.

“I have a weight problem. I never wanted to admit it before, but I’m fucking fat. I’m an obese, lazy fuck. I eat in a vain attempt to fill this emptiness inside of me, and I never really realized before about four years ago that that emptiness only exists because of how violently I shove away everyone around me.”

“I want to apologize. I want to apologize to Clyde, for calling _you_ fat, even though you’re only like, a little chubby. I want to apologize to the women of America, and of the world, for my long history of misogynistic words and actions. I’m sorry that I helped perpetuate the patriarchy. I’m sorry to minority communities for my aggressive racism, and I’m sorry especially to Token, for not supporting you and your daily struggle enough. I want to apologize for my classism, to Kenny, for calling you poor, even though it’s true, you don’t need me ripping on you for it.”

Cartman huffed, his face a bright red. He turned away and rubbed at his eyes. He wrapped his arms around himself and stared at his feet. “Most importantly,” his voice fucking cracked, “I want to apologize to Kyle Broflovski.” Stan straightened, every muscle in his body going rigid. It was never a good sign when Cartman started talking about Kyle in front of a crowd of people.

Kyle, beside him, did the same. “What is he doing?” He set down his phone, the video still recording. “He already read everything.”

“Kyle, I’m really truly sorry for everything that ever transpired between us. I was blinded by my own misguided hatred that I didn’t understand, that really was for myself, but I used you, for years, as my scapegoat for literally fucking everything. Kyle, you’re not going to believe me, but you’re literally my favorite person. You’re not ugly, or greedy, or conniving, or evil like I always said you were.”

“You’re, like, the most mindbogglingly selfless person I’ve ever met. Like, I’d be infuriated by it, and I admit, I used to be, if I wasn’t so in awe. You’re honest, more honest than I could ever hope to be. You’re a good person, and you don’t deserve how I’ve treated you over the years. Who cares that you’re a jew! Not me! Not anymore! I don’t even care that you’re a ginger! In fact, I think it sort of suits you. I know that I can never truly expect you to forgive me, but I’m really truly sorry, for every way I’ve ruined your life, and I hope one day I can repair at least part of the damage I’ve done.”

The gym was silent.

Cartman took a step back from the podium and dropped his shoulders. Stan grabbed Kyle’s shoulder as his eyes met with Cartman’s. Cartman’s eyes widened, and he ran. The gym doors slammed behind him, shaking the bleachers from the force. Kyle twitched and jumped to his feet.

“Where are you going?” Stan asked.

“I need to know what the hell that was all about!” Kyle gestured frantically. “I need to know whether I need to be mad or not.” He backed a few steps unsurely, his sneakers squeaking softly, then ran out of the room. While most other interested eyes in the room focused on the door, where Kyle had just disappeared, Stan’s focused on the bench where he had been sitting, where his phone was left forgotten, still recording.

“Alright,” the principal’s voice broke the veil that had blanketed over their heads, “Let’s have you all file _calmly_ back to class.”

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<+>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Oh god, Eric stared at the crumpled and sweaty page clutched tightly in his thick, trembling fingers. What had he just done? Why hadn’t he just left well enough alone and just read, verbatim, what Kyle had written out for him? Why did he just keep going? Kyle wasn’t going to believe his words were sincere, not when his literal juicy ass was the prize on the line.

Eric growled and threw his balled up speech as far down the hall as he could. He kicked open the bathroom doors and stormed inside. There was an underclassman in there, who upon seeing him quickly scampered out, without washing his hands, disgusting, Eric grimaced. He turned to the sinks and splashed cold water on his face. He needed to slow down his breathing, before he passed out. He squeezed his eyes shut and wheezed out a horribly wet, shuddered breath.

“Cartman, are you in here?” Cartman whirled around, water flying from his dripping face. Kyle pushed open the bathroom door and peeked inside. Their eyes met, and Kyle looked immediately, tragically uncomfortable. Cartman bit down on the sides of his tongue.

“Yeah, I’m in here.”

“Hnn,” Kyle hummed. He closed the door as he entered. “Is there anyone else in here?” There was a beat of silence. Kyle nodded and locked the door behind him. Cartman’s mouth felt dry. He absolutely did _not_ want to be locked in, alone, in a bathroom, with Kyle fucking Broflovski.

“What can I do for you, today?” Cartman pasted as smarmy of a smile to his face as he could. Kyle, as he ever did, looked unimpressed and blinked blandly. He crossed his arms and leaned his hip against the wall, after of course checking that there was nothing there, which was adorable, and Eric had to consciously hold himself back from reacting.

“Well,” Kyle cocked his head, “is it at all possible for you to elucidate on your thought process during this morning’s proceedings?”

“English, please?”

“You understood me.” Kyle bared his teeth, always so disappointingly hostile. “What the fuck _was_ that?” Kyle backhanded the air. “Why did you _embellish?”_

“I got carried away…” Cartman mumbled, staring at his shoes, no longer able to meet Kyle’s beautiful, _searing_ eyes.

“You got carried away?”

“I read what you told me to read!”

“But you added all of these _extra_ apologies on top of it. Why? Why did you do that?” Kyle approached him, the tips of his shoes stopping right before meeting his. Cartman held his breath. “I won’t pretend to ever understand what’s going on in your head, so you’re going to have to tell me. What skeevy little scheme are you trying to pull off?”

“I’m not trying to pull off a fucking scheme, Kyle, at least not one that you haven’t already been invited to participate in-,” Cartman clamped his jaw down. He probably shouldn’t have said that. Kyle took a step back. Cartman lunged, on instinct really, and grabbed his wrist. Kyle’s breath caught. “I apologized because I’m really, seriously sorry.”

“Let go of me.” He dropped his wrist, palm tingling where they had touched. Kyle tapped his heel anxiously. It was, for a moment, the only sound in the room. “So you thought that would be the most appropriate time to get everything off your chest?”

“It overtook me, Kyle! I looked out, and I saw everybody there; I saw _you_ , and I just, I was overwhelmed with this horrible suffocating feeling! You hate me, and I know it’s justified, but I’ve been trying so hard these last few years to better myself, and I just want you to see that! I want you to _like_ me so fucking bad!”

“What?” Kyle scrambled back, nearly tripping over himself. Cartman forced his own feet to remain planted, even though he was terrified Kyle was about to run away.

“I-,” his voice cracked, “I just want to be your friend. I want to be the kind of person that you can legitimately call a friend. I want to be somebody that you can joke and laugh with, somebody that you can work with and enjoy it, somebody you can respect. I want to be somebody you can trust, Kyle, and I’m so fucking sorry I haven’t been that.”

“Wow, I… don’t really know what to say…”

“You don’t have to say anything. I understand if you need time to sort out how you feel.”

“Okay…” They stood there in silence. Kyle’s foot stopped tapping, and he went back to leaning against the wall. Cartman kept his eyes trained down, where the only part of Kyle he could see was his slender legs. He felt warm and didn’t dare seek out his face, trembling at the thought of what expression might be painted over his porcelain features. Disdain, disapproval, disgust, all flashed through his mind, and his heart palpitated. He couldn’t help it, his eyes flicked up.

Thoughtful, Kyle looked soft and thoughtful. He hadn’t expected that. Kyle bit his lip and turned his face away, almost as if he had noticed he was being stared at, though their eyes had never met. His eyebrows tightened, and he sighed.

“Even though you added on top of it, you _did_ read everything I wrote.” Kyle’s arms tightened. “Eric?” Oh God, something about the way he said his name made his stomach flip, even with as weary as his tone petered out, he ached to hear it again.

“Y-yes?”

“The uh… the proposition you made to me before…” Kyle shifted his weight, his cheeks darkening. “Why exactly do you want to um…” Kyle’s face tightened. “ _Why am I even dignifying this?_ ” He muttered to himself.

“You’re broke, and there’s easy money dangling in front of your face. Moral qualms aside, there’s no shame in wanting to take it.” Cartman rubbed his nails over his thumb, eyes flicking over Kyle’s shifting body. He felt so close to finally being coaxed, but all at once an instant away from slipping out of his grasp. “Let me show you that you can trust me. We’ll do this the _right_ way, Kyle.”

“What are you getting out of it, though? You already agreed to give me the bigger cut, so is money your motivation, or is it… something else? I don’t think I’d be so hesitant if I thought it was just for easy money. It’s that other unknown that makes me anxious. _What_ do you _want?”_ Kyle stared at him with bulging eyes, big and freezing. Cartman closed his eyes and reminded his heart to beat. Kyle was still, was relatively calm, yet he feared more for his life then in that moment, locked alone with him in a bathroom, cornered with his own desires, than if he was being actively attacked.

“You want an honest answer?” He croaked.

“Obviously.”

“I just want an excuse to photograph you.” His chest felt tight, and his lungs stopped taking breaths in evenly. Each breath was a pitiful little tremor that wracked his entire body. He felt sick, his face hot but his hands freezing cold. Kyle didn’t speak. He pushed himself off of the wall, froze, and stared at him. Cartman looked away. He could feel his cheeks burning, and he knew Kyle had to have noticed.

Kyle took a step closer and stopped. Was he inspecting him? It certainly seemed like it with the way he squatted down and craned his lithe body around to peer up at his face. Cartman closed his eyes, intent solely on keeping his breathing steady. He couldn’t let Kyle know how bothered he was. It wasn’t so hard to be around him back when he just wanted to make him angry, back when he just wanted a reaction out of him, any reaction. It was so much harder now that he wanted him to like him.

“Why?” Kyle asked, fluttered air erupting from his lips, almost like he was restraining a laugh. Great, Kyle had figured him out and thought it was just so fucking hilarious how deeply he had fallen. Of course he had. Kyle always noticed his shame. Why should it be any different just because he had developed feelings for the cruel redhead? “Can you honestly not think of a better use for your film?”

“What?”

“Or memory, I guess, since you probably use a digital camera.” Kyle rose with an outlandish chuckle. What was so amusing? How is it that after years of just watching and studying him, he still hadn’t figured out a single damn thing? “I bet you could find a couple of pretty cheerleaders to take some pictures of. I bet they’ll even do some flips for you. Or maybe you could go talk to the football team, they _love_ that kind of thing! Better yet, how about you take pictures of fucking rocks!” Kyle snorted.

“Kyle, I want to take pictures of _you_.” Cartman glared at him. Why was he so angry? “Other people are going to want them, too,” he defended, backtracking. “Sure, people would probably like the cheerleaders, or the rocks or whatever, but… but I don’t want to take pictures of boring fucking rocks!”

“Okay, alright, I get it.” Kyle held his palms out defensively and rolled his eyes. “I’m a hot piece of sliz or whatever.” He chuckled derisively and shook his head slowly, marching up to the sinks. “Fuck it.” He placed his hands on either side of the basin and thrust his hips back. Cartman choked. “You better hurry up and get in on this absolute fucking _gold_ while I’m in a good mood!” He wriggled his hips and sniggered cruelly. “Hurry the fuck up, Asshole.”

Cartman squawked, scrambling blindly for something that wasn’t there. “Wait, I don’t have my camera!” He patted down his empty pockets, fully flummoxed and panicked. He feared he would choke on the heart hammering in his throat. He couldn’t afford to miss his chance.

“You have your phone on you, don’t you?” Kyle threw his head over his shoulder and lifted one of his perfect brows up into a mocking curl. “Consider this a trial. If I approve, maybe I’ll let you _properly_ photograph me later,” he growled. Cartman bit back a frustrated groan, his body reacting more strongly that he wanted it too. There was no possible way he hadn’t done that on purpose. He dropped to his knees, careful to keep his own hips held back and out of sight, and pulled out his phone.

His fingers trembled over the screen, itching to press the capture. He forced his arms to still, needing the screen to stop shaking so the shot could focus. He felt a drop of sweat roll down the back of his neck. He was immeasurably grateful Kyle wasn’t standing where he could see it.

“Should I squat?” Kyle cocked his hip, shifting his weight as he spoke.

“No, no, you’re perfect just like that,” Cartman quickly licked his lips and took the first picture. “Maybe in a minute, but god, don’t move.”

“So,” Kyle swayed slowly, “why exactly do you want to take pictures of me?”

“Have you,” their eyes met in the mirror, “ever looked at yourself, Kyle?”

Kyle’s eyes flicked away and he shook his head, some strange kind of smile tugging his lips. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I am not!” Cartman fumbled, nearly dropping his phone. He held the device to his chest, panting heavily. Why was he finding it so hard to breathe? It couldn’t all be from just Kyle.

“Don’t you still play with dolls?”

“You wrote that, Kyle.” Never mind that he had added extra details. “I play with dolls about as much as I want to lick my own butt.”

“Kinky.”

“Spread your legs.”

“ _WHAT?”_ Kyle straightened, rounding on him, splotched in pink. Cartman jerked back, reeling from the whiplash. Only Kyle could flip so easily between two extremes of emotion.

“F-for the pictures, Kyle,” he stammered. “It’ll make your ass look really fucking good.”

“Right, we’re…” Kyle closed his eyes and shook his head. “Okay.” He returned to the sink and slid his heel slowly across the grey linoleum until his legs were spread wide. He rolled his hips back and stood there, still for a moment, thinking. Cartman could _feel_ the cogs turning in his head from across the room. Kyle nodded once to himself and popped his hands off the sink, dropping forward so he was balanced on crossed elbows. “Are you actually going to be able to make these look good?”

“Of course I’m gonna make you look fucking good, Kyle. I’m a professional.” He quickly drew his phone back up. “Not that it would really be possible to make you look bad.”

“Dude, stop saying shit like that. It’s weird.” He felt as if he had just been stabbed. Was he really being weird? He was trying to be nice. Friends were nice. Kyle looked him over, his nose scrunching in distaste. Cartman tightened his jaw, refusing to let it affect him.

“You don’t have to be a dick,” Cartman sighed, “I’m not hitting on you. I’m just being objective is all.” Cartman scooted about a foot back. “You can um… you can squat now, but I want you to swing your hips right back up when you do, okay?”

“I don’t see what’s objective about wildly exaggerating my-,”

“I’m not exaggerating your anything! God, Kyle, you must be blind or something to be this dense.”

“Don’t call me dense,” Kyle said flatly.

“Kyle, that wasn’t my point and you know it—,” Kyle rolled his eyes and dropped into a deep squat. Cartman’s tongue went numb. Kyle swayed slowly, his fingertips barely holding onto the edge of the sink. It was the perfect shot, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. His stomach felt tight, and he was transfixed. He stilled, stunned by the dull sheen playing upon Kyle’s red hair, only then noticing that he hadn’t been wearing his hat, and by his pale, pale skin. Did he never go outside? Maybe that was why he was so smooth.

His eyes were drawn to his hands, beautiful, and delicate, and slender, and perfect. He had always loved his hands, fantasies of those hands groping every inch of him near constantly racing through some part of his mind. His grip on his phone tightened, blinded by the bland glint of that taunting black ring. He forced his eyes up, with a deep sigh, and glared up at the buzzing fluorescent lights. He settled himself with plans to trap Kyle alone somewhere with better lighting.

“Are you bored of me already?” Cartman jumped. Kyle stared at him blankly. It was impossible to tell whether he was upset or amused, and somehow, that only made his heart beat faster.

“No, I just—,” the bell rang.

“Damn,” Kyle pushed himself up, clicking his tongue, “and I was just starting to have fun, too.”

“Y-you were?” He hadn’t seemed to be enjoying himself, but it hadn’t sounded sarcastic… of course he had spoken flatly enough that it _could_ have been. Kyle hummed emptily and stretched his arms over his head, cracking his spine.

“Text me the pictures, then delete them.” He caught his eyes, “Delete all of them. I’ll look them over and resend the ones I approve of.” He sounded so casual about it, like they were discussing a school project. Cartman didn’t know what to make of him. He wanted nothing more than to unravel the conundrum that was Kyle Broflovski.

“O-okay.” He hated the way his voice caught in his throat. Kyle definitely did _not_ think he was cool.

“Later.” Kyle saluted him with two fingers and left the bathroom, nonchalant and normal, as if nothing had transpired between the two of them. His stomach churned because he knew that just couldn’t be true, not when he felt like a puddle. He glanced down at himself and groaned; he was going to have to be late to second period.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<+>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Stan fidgeted with Kyle’s phone, running his fingers over the impeccably cared for case, the screen blank. He could barely focus on his class, his head full of fuzz and feeling both too heavy and too light all at once. All he could really focus on was the phone in his hands, determined not to forget to return it, so he kept it in his lap, in his hand, where he’d be constantly reminded of it until he saw Kyle again. It took just about his entire mental bandwidth to remember why he had it in the first place.

Stan glanced up at the clock, his eyes crossing blearily as he took in the numbers, having no idea how much longer he’d have to sit there before he would be able to track Kyle down. Where even was Kyle’s first period? Did he have one? He had to, since he’d seen him that morning. Where was his second period? Stan’s face pinched as he struggled to remember whether Kyle had even shared his schedule with him. He must have, not that Stan could remember.

The phone buzzed.

Stan startled and fumbled to press the button on the side of it, silencing it. He shoved the device in his pocket and held his breath for the precious moments it took for his heart to settle. His throat thrummed with blood, and his head pounded. He could absolutely _not_ lose Kyle’s phone to the confiscation drawer. How would he possibly explain that?

He quickly glanced around, wary that some unseen force might have been watching him, but his teacher was busy drinking coffee, his feet propped up on his desk, and his classmates couldn’t care less about him. Taking in a deep breath, relieved by the surrounding lack of concern, He pulled the phone back out. He knew it was an invasion of his super best friend’s privacy, but he was also worried, and worry could lead a man to do all sorts of things he might not otherwise do. He just needed some vague sense of what Kyle had been up to so he would know how to approach him.

Stan shook his head in disgust. What was he even trying to convince himself of?

There were twelve messages, from ‘Fatass’. Stan’s lip quirked up at the title just before his stomach dropped. The messages were all pictures, so Stan couldn’t see them, but knowing the source, he knew they contained only the worst possible contents. Stan scowled, debating within himself, his thumb hovering over the lock. Another message flashed across the screen.

**I’m telling u, u look good man**

That decided it.

Stan quickly typed in Kyle’s password, Ike’s birthday, and pulled open the messages.

“What the-?” Stan squinted in disbelief. Why had Cartman sent Kyle pictures of him like… like that? Stan blinked. It didn’t feel right.

“Hey, move it, jackass. You’re in my spot.” Craig Tucker, probably one of the most insufferable pricks in the entire school slammed his backpack down on Stan’s desk. Stan yelped. Craig raised an eyebrow, his face otherwise unmoved. Stan flushed.

“No, I’m not. This is my spot.”

“The bell rang, idiot.”

Stan’s eyes shot open. “Shit.” He jumped up, scooped up his belongings and darted for the door.

“Marsh.” Stan stopped in the door.

“What?”

“Tell Kyle to watch his back.” A cold sweat rose up on his neck. That was a threat. Stan marched out of the room, refusing him a response. He could feel Craig’s eyes on his back. He shook off the feeling. It didn’t matter, and he had more important things to worry about, like tracking down Kyle.

Which turned out to be incredibly easy. There he was, right there, across the hall, pacing in front of the bathrooms, pulling at his hair, sending off enough energy to create a parted sea of off-put bodies, completely oblivious to it. Stan ran to him, pushing aside bodies that refused to part for him tripping over feet, and stumbling over frantic apologies, eyes not once leaving his friend, lest he lose him or forget where he was going in the first place.

“Oh god!” Kyle shouted. “Oh God, oh God, oh God! I can’t believe I just did that!” Kyle wheezed deliriously. He sounded horrified, but with the flush in his cheeks and the sheen in his eyes, he looked positively thrilled. Stan felt sick.

“Hey, dude.”

“Stan!” Kyle lighted upon him, his hands a little too enthused to grab him by the arms. His bony fingers dug in, but he didn’t let on.

“I have something for you, hold on.” Stan pushed Kyle back, gently, he was always gentle with him, and started rifling through his pockets.

“Oh?” Kyle asked, not bothering to hide the amusement from his tone. “What ever could it be?”

“Well, hold on,” Stan grunted, not finding anything worthwhile in any of his pockets. What was he even looking for?

“Could it possibly be,” Kyle asked sweetly, “my phone, the one in your hand?”

Stan looked down, his head un-fogging. “Oh, um, yeah…” He held out the phone. “Hey, Kyle?”

“Hm?” Kyle hummed, flicking open this phone, a confused frown taking rise.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Depends,” Kyle sighed airily, as he took a step back, his shoulders tightening.

“I had your phone,” Stan stepped forward. Kyle took another step back. His eyes darted to the side, looking out to the hall. “Cartman—,’

“I’m sorry, Stan, the bell’s going to ring, so… so I’ve got to go. We’ll talk later, yeah?” He grinned tightly, and ran the opposite way.

“Oh my god,” Stan muttered, “he fucking fled.”

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<+>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Despite having said that they would talk later, Kyle avoided him for the rest of the day. Sure, he always had an excuse so he could deny his avoidance: another upcoming bell, a test he somehow needed to make up, a meeting with Mr. Mackey to discuss his prospects for tutoring this year; but it was obvious, and it stung. Even after school had ended, Kyle had still found an excuse to cut him off, explaining, eyes pinched, he didn’t want to be late for his shift at the bowling alley.

Stan twitched next his truck, crossing and uncrossing his arms again as he stared at the school, waiting for his girlfriend to emerge. His jaw ached from how tightly he was squeezing it shut, and his eyes were starting to water. He tipped back the energy drink can in his hand, the simple act of swallowing practically torture from the pressure building in his throat. He scowled up at a cloud, feeling that was what he ought to be doing.

“Hey, babe?” Wendy approached cautiously. “Are you doing alright?” She laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. He grunted and shook his head.

“I think you were right.” He licked his teeth, already anticipating the unpleasant taste of what he was about to say.

“About what?” Wendy’s voice dropped, warning him to be careful what he chose to say next. Stan breathed in deeply. He considered, briefly, that he might have misinterpreted something, and maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to say anything at all, but he knew what was going on, and he couldn’t avoid it.

“I think they’re actually, honest to fucking God, dating,” he spat.

“Who?”

Stan swirled his drink, his lips tightening over his teeth. He didn’t think he could do it. He wanted to throw up, and it wasn’t the pleasant kind of throwing up that came when his innards were all twitter-pated and in love. “Kyle and,” he groaned, “and Cartman.”

“What?! Really?” Wendy belted a single shocked bleat. “I was joking.”

“Well, I’m not.” Stan tipped back his energy drink again, wishing it was something a little stiffer.

“Hey guys!” Kenny ran up, a grin on his face. “Thanks for letting me come, Wendy. My sister was looking at one of the flyers the other… day and… woah.” Kenny shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned forward, regarding them seriously. “What happened?”

Stan stared at him silently, unwilling to utter the horrid words once more. Wendy looked up at him and sighed, delicately swiping her hair over her shoulder. “Cartman’s dating Kyle,” she said.

“Dammit!” Kenny kicked the gravel. “I was available, and he chose Cartman?”

“Wait,” Stan held his hand out to steady himself. “You like Kyle?”

“Everyone likes Kyle, just a little bit.” Kenny shrugged. Stan and Wendy stared at him. Kenny frowned. “Are you serious? Neither of you have noticed?”

“Noticed what?” Stan glanced over his shoulder, not sure why he suddenly felt so paranoid.

“Kyle’s ass is like,” Kenny gestured with his hands and made an expression that probably was supposed to explain his point, but Stan found himself struggling to follow. Wendy reddened and started grumbling under her breath.

“Please don’t tell me I have to listen to this for the tenth time today.”

“Listen to what?” Stan felt like he was missing something.

“What are we talking about?” Heidi peeked her head around the back of the truck, a sweet smile on her face. Stan panicked and started stammering stupid with his stupid stammering mouth.

“Oh, we were just wondering where you were!” Wendy chimed, breezily taking Heidi’s hands. Stan sighed and slumped back against his truck, grateful for the existence of Wendy Testaburger in his life. He probably, had another second passed, would have started rambling vaguely about Cartman and Kyle, and he figured, it was probably for the best that neither of them were mentioned around the likes of Heidi Turner.


	6. Cartman's Nonexistent Melodrama

The humming of his engine threatened to lull Stan to sleep. He yawned wide, his jaw practically unhinging, and blinked the stars from his eyes to refocus on the road. He swerved dangerously. A horn blared, and a car whizzed past him.

“Babe, are you okay?” Wendy whispered, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Yeah, I’m good.” He nodded heavily. She frowned.

“Have you not been sleeping?”

“I already talked things out with my dad, so it’s okay now.” Stan reached across her and popped open his glove compartment. He rifled briefly, keeping the wheel steady with his knee, Wendy tensing silently, and emerged victorious with a shot of Redbull. “Open this for me, would you?” He asked.

“Stan, you didn’t really answer me. What’s going on with your dad?” She held the little bottle captive. Stan clenched his teeth, thinking about how he should respond. His phone buzzed. “It’s your dad.”

“Silence it.” She raised an eyebrow at him. “Please.” The phone went quiet.

“Stan.”

“I don’t really want to get into it right now.” He subtly gestured to the backseat, where Kenny sat maybe just a little too close to Heidi, completely oblivious as she had to duck and bob to avoid his animated hand movements.

“-and Karen showed me the damned flier, telling me how she wanted to get a job, too so I’d be home more often; I nearly choked to death. I almost changed my mind on coming today because I know she’s stubborn and would have applied regardless of what I said, for my own damn good too, she’d say, but I managed to convince Tuong to interview her, so at least I know she’s accounted for.”

“Um,” Heidi folded her hands neatly in her lap, “Who’s Tuong?”

“Oh, Mr. Kim, from City Wok.”

“Right.”

Wendy nodded calmly and turned back to him, the old leather seat beneath her creaking softly. “Then answer me this,” she glanced back at the two behind her, making sure to lower her voice so neither of them would hear her, “Are we actually sure they’re dating?”

“God, Wends, yeah, we’re pretty sure.” She didn’t say anything. Eyes glued to the road, he still knew her eyes on him, from the intensity of her silent patience. Stan groaned. “Please open the Redbull first.”

She opened the bottle, but didn’t pass it to him.

“Wendy!”

“Alright, sorry, geez.” She passed him the bottle, and he downed it. “Those are going to kill you, you know.”

“Neat,” he grumbled. Wendy smacked his arm.

“Stan, how do we know?”

“Wendy, he sent Kyle suggestive pictures of himself that he had obviously posed for this morning, like who does that?” He hissed, jerking his wheel harshly, almost missing the exit.

“Hasn’t Cartman done that before though?”

“The pictures were of _Kyle_.”

“Huh.”

“Yo! Wendy!” Kenny flung himself forward. Stan squealed and slammed on the breaks. Kenny, unbuckled, flew forward and slammed into the windshield. He went still. The cabin was silent, no-one daring to breathe.

“Oh my god,” Stan croaked, “I think I killed Kenny.”

Kenny shifted, and everyone deflated, Stan bursting into tears— one tear— bursting into a single fat tear that rolled down his ashen cheek. Kenny pushed himself up with a groan and clutched the front of his head. “Ugh, that’s gonna leave a nasty goose-egg.”

“Sorry Kenny!”

“Nah,” Kenny waved him off with an uncoordinated hand, “I should have been wearing a seatbelt.” He looked off into the distance, his eyes strangely focused, and grinned a TV-ready smile, “Don’t forget to wear your seatbelt kids.”

“Kenny, let me look in your eyes,” Wendy ordered. Kenny groggily complied, and the air sat tense as she stared at him in utter silence. “Follow my finger…He might be concussed.”

“Great,” Kenny muttered, slumping back in his seat. “I just wanted to know how many people were going to be there, so not worth it.”

“Oh hundreds, we discussed it in the forum,” Wendy commented offhandedly.

“Um,” Stan interjected awkwardly, “should I take him to the hospital?” He pressed on the gas again, waving apologetically to someone who flipped him off.

“We’d be late to the rally.” Kenny sat up with a wince. Stan glanced at Wendy. She looked conflicted. “I’ve been through worse and walked it off, guys. Please don’t make me go to the hospital,” his voice wavered. “Please?” He sounded impossibly weak.

“Just, no-one is allowed to let Kenny fall asleep, understood?” Wendy decided. Everyone nodded numbly. “Stan, turn right at the light. Headquarters is close.” Stan nodded mutely and obeyed.

“So, um, the forum?” Kenny tried to lean forward again. Heidi held him back with a firm hand and pulled the seatbelt over him. He threw back his head, looking rather ill. Stan hoped he didn’t throw up; cleaning vomit from the upholstery was utter Hell.

“It’s a place for finding fellow minded individuals to plan out and lay siege against the evils of the patriarchy.”

“Uh right, yeah, that makes sense,” Kenny mumbled, sounding distinctly, despite his resounding words of confidence, not entirely convinced. It could have simply been due to the growing red and yellow lump on his forehead.

“It’s up there!” Wendy jabbed her finger up ahead. Stan nodded and effortlessly pulled up to the side of the road and parked.

“Wow, it’s never this easy to find parking in North Park!” He exclaimed. Wendy frowned.

“The others probably carpooled or something. They’re tactical geniuses. I bet they’re only disguising the sheer magnitude of the attack.”

“Weren’t the others supposed to have started this morning?” Heidi asked. Wendy visibly withheld a glare from the other girl’s direction.

“Come on,” She grunted, throwing open her door and jumping out. She slammed the door behind her, rattling all of them. Stan was the first one to follow her out, closing his own door much more carefully than she had. He glanced in the direction she had started to walk, then rounded the truck to open the door for Heidi. She climbed out, a soft thanks on her lips, and together they helped Kenny climb out and supported him until his head stopped spinning, and he was upright.

“Alright, get off.” Kenny grinned winsomely, batting their hands away, the first one to actually follow after Wendy. Stan stopped to lock his car. He and Heidi fell into awkward step, following close behind, side behind. Stan’s face screwed up, and he purposefully slowed his pace just enough to un-synchronize their footfalls.

Stan stopped walking once he was beside Wendy. She was silent, and her shoulders were rolled forward. Kenny let out a low whistle, swaying on the spot. “Wow, what a turn out.” He snickered lowly and stumbled forward. Heidi caught him and set him upright, keeping a hand firmly against his arm.

Stan surveyed the atrociously small crowd. There were two girls he didn’t recognize, but judging by their uniforms were problems students at North Park High, a single older woman with a haircut that just broadcast how unpleasant she was, a man with a fully grown neckbeard who was definitely protesting for the opposite cause.

“The shorts should be shorter even!” The man cried, hoisting a sign that read in shaky paint strokes ‘FLiberate Her Flesn’ over his head.

“It doesn’t matter,” Wendy said, squaring her shoulders, her jaw jutting up in determination, “We’ll just have to be louder.”

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<+>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Cartman laid on his bed, staring at his ceiling, his phone abandoned beside him. He had deleted the photos of Kyle, and his mind was left racing with empty noise. He could have kept them, kept Kyle from knowing, but he had destroyed them anyway. He found his stomach felt uncomfortably settled without them sitting in arm’s reach, tempting him to indulge.

The sun had long since fallen, yet Kyle had yet to respond to him in any way. At school he had crossed the halls to completely avoid him, and now, with nothing to distract him from it, the silence from his phone deafened him. His indifference stung worse than a lashing across the face, a lashing directly upon the exposed beating flesh of his fragile heart.

“Alexa,” he called out into the surrounding darkness, just to hear something, “what time is it?”

“The current time is 8:39.”

He rolled over and stared out the window. He contemplated, briefly, running down the street, to climb the tree by Kyle’s room and knock on the cold pane of his window. He pressed his palms against his eyes until little pricks of light popped into his vision and forced out a staggered exhale. Kyle would be pissed if he did that, and he was pretty sure he was already on thin ice.

He hated this.

His phone buzzed.

He would be ashamed to admit how quickly his hand had flown for the device, had a concerning wave of disappointment not immediately overtaken him instead. It was a text from Bebe, so irritating to see that he barely paused to wonder where she had gotten his number before swiping it open.

**You’ve been talking to Kyle, right?**

**y?** He responded lazily, unhappily staring at the screen.

**Because idiot, I need you to provide the goods.** Another bubble popped up faster than he could read the first. **I’ve been talking to the other girls, and they’re definitely hungry.**

**hungry enuf 2 pay?**

**Oh yes.**

He set his phone down, chewing thoughtfully on his inner cheek, muling things over. Everything was falling into place for this little endeavor. He just needed to give Kyle one last little push, and they’d be on their path to prosperity and maybe even fame. He drummed his fingers on his stomach, his eyes darting in thought. This would be so easy if the unpredictable variable wasn’t Kyle Fucking Broflovski. His face scrunched in pain, and he whipped up his phone.

**Give me time** He threw his phone down and threw himself beside it.

What was he going to do about Kyle? He couldn’t figure out what was going inside his head, and it was driving him mad. He liked having everything around him be an easily manipulatable little pawn; he liked to keep everything neat and set about him in a certain way. Kyle had never let him do that, and unfortunately, he bitterly had to admit to himself, that had probably been what drew him to the stubborn asshole in the first place.

He rolled the other way and threw his arm over the side of his bed. He scrounged under the bed, shoving aside boxes and lost pencils until he felt the delightful crinkle of a crisps bag. He licked his teeth in anticipation and pulled out his prize, Cheesy Poofs. He popped the bag open, the rich stench of artificial cheese consuming his senses and instantly bringing his nerves to a still. He shoved a handful of the cheesy, crunchy sin into his mouth and groaned.

Cramming one more handful in his mouth, he set the bag aside and leaned forward to reach further under the bed, knowing, somewhere down there, he had a packet of snack cakes. “Aha!” He brandished his cakes in victory. He quickly tore into the package and let the sugary frosting wash over him. He threw his head back into his pillows and let his eyes fall closed in contentment. He put another cake in his mouth and grabbed another handful of his Cheesy Poofs.

He slapped his hand blindly over the surface of his nightstand, seeking out the remote for the TV he had begged his mom to buy for his twelfth birthday. He clicked the screen on, contently munching as the flickering lights kissed his face. He clicked through the channels: from the news, to Terrence and Phillip, to an infomercial; his brain taking in none of what he saw.

“—at Mephesto’s Labs today.” Cartman stilled. It had been years since he had heard the nasally tones of Dr. Mephesto. Images of asses, so many, too many, misshapen and discolored asses, flashed through his mind. He shuddered violently and switched the channel. The energetic tones of a Home-Video style fails compilation washed over him. He immediately started cackling, allowing his mind to numb.

His phone buzzed. He ignored it, assuming it was Bebe. He didn’t have any sick need to pursue a conversation with someone who demanded answers he was simply unable to provide. It was irritating, and he was nowhere close to being in the mood for it. He turned his attention back to the TV and watched a kid tumble down a hill, forcing from him a burst of glee. He filled his mouth with another handful, almost choking over another outburst.

A few more minutes passed. He snickered cruelly, and he emptied his bag of Cheesy Poofs, turning to his remaining cakes for solace. Propped up against his pillows, his eyes growing bleary and tongue growing numb to taste, he didn’t feel good, but he didn’t feel bad either, so he didn’t care.

The phone buzzed again, and this time, with a roll of the eyes, he checked. It was Kyle. He quickly wiped his sticky, cheesy hands on his jeans and unlocked the screen. He stopped breathing, a stupid smile starting to form on his lips. There were two messages from him.

**I deleted most of them.**

**Are you not going to ask which one I kept?**

Another bubble popped up, three dancing dots; he was typing. Cartman yelped, immediately biting down on his tongue afterwards, and began typing ferociously, determined to beat Kyle to the punch.

**Of course Ido I was busy**

The dancing dots disappeared. Cartman stared down at the little blue screen, his eyes wide and unblinking, his heart hammering louder than the breaths he wasn’t taking. He saw Kyle hesitantly start typing again before abandoning the endeavor.

 _This_ he hated.

A picture sprang up on his screen. He immediately tapped the image to make itbigger. It was a good one. The focus, of course, was Kyle’s ass, but it was tasteful, an almost melancholic feeling taking over the entire thing. Kyle held the sink with stiff arms, his hip delicately cocked to the side, a subtle draw to the eye. His head was tilted down, obscuring the reflection of his face.

**Did you delete everything from your end?** Cartman’s jaw dropped open. Had he so little trust? Yes, probably.

**Obviously who do u take me 4?**

**You don’t want me to answer that.** Cartman was about to type in his response, something he would have ended up regretting no doubt, but Kyle ended up saving him. **So are you going to send that to Bebe now?**

**We haven’t discussed price yet.** Kyle was silent after that. Cartman turned off the TV. He stared down at the phone in silence, humming gently as he thought about what angle to approach from. Doing this over text complicated things. He couldn’t tell how hesitate Kyle was, and he was finding it difficult to gauge how hard to press.

**We need to meet.** His fingers started shaking after he hit send.

**You and Bebe?**

**U and me**

***You and I.*** Cartman rolled his eyes at that. Kyle just couldn’t resist, could he?

**Asshole.** “Seriously,” he muttered, folding his legs beneath himself as he sat up, glancing out the window one more. He felt, more than he actually saw, that Kyle’s light, two houses down was on. He wondered what he was doing, if their conversation was his sole interest, if he was simply sitting and staring at his phone, like he was.

**I’m busy this weekend, so if you want to talk we can meet at five.** Kyle refused to rise to his bait. Cartman found he had to resist the sadly non-alien urge to pout over it.

**u don’t mean in the morning, do you?**

**In the morning.** He could feel Kyle’s smug little smirk through the screen. **Bring your running shoes.**

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<+>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Five a.m. was an unreasonable hour to be awake, let alone to be standing out in the cold, frozen and still on the Broflovski’s bottom stoop, wearing Nike shoes stiff from disuse and a size too tight. He swallowed down a lump in his throat, trying to convince himself that he was like totally cool and had no reason to be rooted to the ground in fear. He was ruthless and had a record with the police for God’s sake. He sighed, straightened the strap of the camera bag strewn over his shoulder, and pulled at the neck of his hoodie, much tighter than he remembered it being, before skipping up the steps, the front door swaying in his vision.

He raised a tentative fist to knock on the door and stopped. Sure, Kyle had told him to come at this hour, but he wasn’t actually certain if he was supposed to knock and risk waking his family. He stared blankly at the door for a moment and bit his lip. He supposed he could text him. He nodded to himself and pulled out his phone just as the door silently swung open.

“Oh my God, you actually showed up.” Cartman’s eyes darted up, and he choked. Kyle stood, framed in the doorway like a work of art, his lips delicately parted in surprise. He was all at once painfully covered, with a dark green hoodie pulled snugly over his hair, yet so achingly exposed, in shorts that could only be assumed to be illegal. Cartman stared up at the sky, shoving his hands so very carefully casual in his hoodie pocket.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Kyle opened his mouth to respond, paused, and looked down at his feet, fiddling with the lid of a plastic water bottle, the answer clearly evading him. He pursed his lips, and grumbled under his breath, shaking his head. He crossed his arms and glared up at Cartman. “Are you going to let me step out of the doorway, or are we going to stand here all day?”

“What would you do,” Cartman smirked, leaning too far into what he knew to be Kyle’s bubble, feeling bold despite how breathless his words panted out, “if I said I like you right where you are?” He rested one of his arms against the doorframe, boxing Kyle in.

Kyle’s eyes flicked over him, his body trembling slightly despite how calm his expression begged for him to be seen. “I’d close the door and go back to bed. I can miss _one_ day.” Cartman took a step back. “Thank you.” Kyle easily stepped out, unwinding his lithe body as he rolled his back and stretched his arms overhead, cracking his spine.

“Should we get right to business,” Cartman shifted his camera bag behind his back, almost regretting having brought it without prior discussing it, “and discuss things, or..?”

“Nice sweats.” Kyle pulled the door shut and locked it.

“You don’t need to be a jackass. I don’t run, so why would I own running stuff?”

“Even still,” Kyle tutted pityingly. “You look like someone’s grandma.” He kicked his leg out, pressing his foot against the porch railing, and reached for his toes. Cartman looked out at the street, his cheeks warm despite the morning chill nipping at his skin.

“I definitely don’t, Kyle,” he grunted tightly.

“Not even _you_ find me funny anymore,” Kyle sighed. He switched his feet. “You should probably stretch, too, especially since I’m pretty sure you’ve never ran before in your life.”

“Not true, I’ve ran for my life a few times!” Cartman protested. Kyle hummed dismissively and continued stretching, his back turned to him. Cartman bit down on his tongue and turned away, deciding to reach for his own toes, if only so he wouldn’t be shamelessly watching Kyle waggle his hips everywhere. He couldn’t possibly be that oblivious to what he was doing, smart as he was, could he?

“I’m going to run to Stark’s Pond. I won’t slow down for you, so if you want to talk, you’ll have to keep up.” Kyle hopped down the steps and started off down the road, jogging lightly, far too quickly for Cartman, who wasn’t even standing upright.

“Wait! Hold on!” He cried, tripping over his feet.

“No.”

Cartman stumbled over his feet, his hands more concerned with protecting his camera than keeping himself upright, yet somehow, he managed to remain at least somewhat, if not entirely, upright. He gasped, already out of breath, as he pounded down the pavement after Kyle’s quickly vanishing form. He was so fast. He was so cruel.

Kyle disappeared around a bend, but he didn’t stop running, even after he’d lost sight of his goal, he didn’t stop running. He knew where Kyle meant to go, so even though he’d been so quickly outpaced, he could still follow. He wheezed, his useless eyes feeling like they were about to pop from his head.

He rounded the street corner, and there he saw him, up ahead, a little bouncing dot growing ever smaller, but still there. He put a little extra push into his steps, but felt like he was going nowhere. His vision was starting to grow dark around the edges, but he couldn’t stand the shame of admitting he was so horribly out of shape, so he kept pushing.

His hoodie felt tight, horrifically, painfully tight, especially around his neck. He tugged at the neck, but it didn’t help. He gagged, his sweat bleeding into his eyes. He was dying, he knew it. He could see the light. He clutched his chest and reached out, his fingers curling as he clutched at something unseen, his feet still trudging forward.

The sides of his face felt suddenly icy cold. He gulped, trying desperately to swallow down a lump of spit that had lodged itself firmly in his throat. He felt the ice drift down and the sound of ripping fabric filled the air, immediately relieving the pressure on his jugular. A harsh force pounded on his back, and he threw up.

He desperately panted, drawing in frozen breaths that made his lungs ache. His hands were brought up over his head, and his heart started to settle as he took in deeper and slower breaths. His head no longer swimming, he could feel tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.

“Panicking like that doesn’t help when you can’t breathe,” Kyle hummed gently. He realized, then, that he was rubbing soothing circles on his back. He closed his eyes and memorized the sensation, the small boney fingers and the trails they left behind, searing his skin despite how cold he could tell they were, even through his clothes.

He heard Kyle step closer, heard a gentle squelch from his shoe, then felt his hair be brushed up. Kyle clicked his tongue gently and pressed something into his hands. Cartman looked down at it, not sure what to make of it, the water bottle forced into his possession. It was Kyle’s. Was he supposed to drink from it?

“Drink. I promise it’s clean.”

“I’m not worried about that.” He popped the rubber stopper open and squeezed the water into his mouth, careful not to touch it with his lips. Kyle stared at him funnily.

“I can’t make sense of you.”

Cartman snorted and passed the bottle back to him. “I’ve been pretty straight forward with you.”

“That’s the problem. Since when have you ever been forthcoming?” Kyle crossed his arms, closing himself off. Cartman shook his head, clearing it of the fight he was tempted to start.

Instead, he said, “A lot longer than you’d believe,” and pulled away. He went to straighten the camera bag on his shoulder, only to realize it was gone. He spun in a quick circle, scanning the ground for the missing bag, another bout of panic rising up within him.

“Relax, I have your camera.”

“Heh, Kyle I wasn’t—,” Kyle lifted his palm, silencing him.

“I don’t really care why you brought your camera.” He passed the bag back to him. “I’m not stupid, you know.”

“No, I suppose you’re not,” Cartman conceded easily, quickly undoing the straps to check inside and make sure none of the equipment was damaged.

“You probably shouldn’t…” Kyle hesitated, staring thoughtfully over Cartman’s shoulders as he thought. Cartman’s fingers itched to pull out the camera in his hands. The way the natural light caught in his eyes and made them explode with shades of green he had never seen before was just unfairly, tauntingly cruel, “probably shouldn’t use a school camera for, you know, anything with me…”

“Hm? Huh?” Cartman clacked his jaw shut.

“It would be inappropriate.”

“Inappropriate? You mean like how you tore my clothes off me like a ravenous fiend?” Cartman grinned, unconcerned with the fact that he was no less exposed than before, his Terrance and Philip pajama shirt protecting any self-decency he might have contained. He couldn’t care less for the semantics of it, not when Kyle’s face lit up in such a vibrant display.

“That’s a strange way to thank someone for saving you from suffocating!” He scoffed. Cartman cackled. Kyle was unamused, but he didn’t move to do or say anything about it.

“Thank you for saving me, Kyle. I didn’t think you’d even notice.”

“I thought I heard something behind me, and I was surprised to see you had actually tried to keep pace with me.” Kyle shoved his hands in his pockets. Somehow his shorts had enough space for pockets. The top of the waistband pulled down ever so slightly lower, a slim band of pale flesh exposing itself.

“You didn’t leave me much choice.” Cartman shrugged, forcing his gaze to go no lower than Kyle’s eyes, which honestly did little to help the palpitations in his chest threatening to send him over the edge to his demise. Kyle’s unaware beauty was a deadly consumption, and he wished that he had never noticed it.

“I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” Cartman blinked. Kyle was the one _he_ couldn’t make sense of.

“I was a dick.” Kyle kicked at the grass beneath their feet. “I should have given you a chance, at least.”

Someone behind Kyle, a few yards off, whistled obnoxiously. “NICE!” The stranger called, a man in his upper forties. Kyle whirled on the spot.

“Excuse you!” He screeched. “I am having a conversation with my friend! You were _not_ invited to participate!”

“Hey, relax,” the man defended, “I was paying you a compliment. Don’t act like you didn’t come out here looking for one.” His eyes flicked down unabashedly, devouring every inch of exposed skin they came upon. Kyle gaped at him.

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” Kyle stomped towards the man, heat radiating off of him. Cartman swallowed. “How fucking old are you?”

“For-forty eight,” the man stammered, taking a step back, cowed despite being over a head taller than Kyle.

“I’m seventeen,” Kyle stomped at him with a snarl, “fuck off before I call the cops.” The man yelped and turned tail. Kyle stood there seething, long after he was gone, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. “Honestly,” he spat, “the nerve of grown-ass adults shouting across the street to mock me.” He shook his head ruefully. “It fucking astounds me.”

“Mock you?” Cartman coughed.

“Yes,” Kyle flew back towards him, his eyes glittering with an oncoming rant. “It happens all the fucking time, and I’m sick of it!”

“Well,” Cartman said, stretching his arms out in front of him, “I’m pretty sure he wasn’t mocking you.”

“What he said was still disgusting.” Kyle threw himself down on the grass and pulled his knees up to his chest. He stared off into the distance, toward the hill that hid Stark’s Pond behind it. He fiddled with the ring on his right hand. “I want to throw up.”

Cartman carefully set himself down beside him, his bones creaking as he hefted his weight down. He shamefully gnawed on his lip, positioning himself as comfortably as possible. “I thought it was pretty badass when you yelled at him. I think I might have even seen a little patch of piss.” Kyle snorted.

“It’s weird.”

“What is?”

“You… being nice to me… it’s weird.” Kyle cocked his head, reacting his cheek on his shoulder as he peered up at him owlishly. “Why?”

Cartman laid down in the grass. He could feel the moisture beneath him slowly start to seep into his clothes. He stared at the clouds overhead. The sun was starting to come up, and it washed the sky with gorgeous hues of pink and orange. He knew that Kyle would be breathtaking, nearly ethereal in the light, and he refused to look. He folded his hands over his stomach.

“Being cruel started to get boring.”

“So this is a game to you?” His question didn’t sound like an accusation, which he would have expected. His words had come out slow, methodical, like he was working desperately to wrap his mind around something but wasn’t quite there yet. Kyle threw himself back dramatically, so they laid side by side. His elbow brushed Cartman’s shoulder.

“You’ve never been a game to me.”

Kyle snorted. “Sure.” He tapped his foot. “Why’d you change, though?”

“You got bored.” Cartman turned his head to the side, allowing himself to take in Kyle’s face. His profile was sharp, all harsh edges and dramatic ate lines, yet he still managed to look delicate, like a fae. His eyes flitted about, sunshine dancing in his lashes, darting from thought to thought, a serious downturn taking to his lips.

“So,” Kyle concluded, “I’m not a game, but apparently you want to play with me anyway. So full of contradictions.” He smiled gently.

“I could still hurt you,” he threatened, his words empty, and somehow, they both knew it.

“I’m not scared of you.” Kyle grinned devilishly, his white teeth glinting brightly. He had to bleach them, there was no other way they could be so white. Cartman closed his eyes for a moment, to collect his thoughts.

“I know.”

“What are you willing to do,” Kyle suddenly fixed him with the full intensity of his burning gaze, “to keep me from being bored, then?” Cartman found his brain momentarily unable to run. All he knew was the color green, green, green.

“Right now, I’m kinda working on the whole friendship angle.” Kyle hummed and looked away. “Were you telling the truth, when you told that guy we’re friends?” He tried to find the vulnerability in his voice, to come off as more teasing than anything, but he could tell by the tightening in Kyle’s being that he had failed.

“We’re getting close to something like that.” He drummed his fingers against his knee, a being made entirely of bunched nerves and kinetic energy.

“You won’t give me anything, will you?”

“Not for free.” Kyle kicked him. Cartman stared down toward his leg, toward the tingling thrum that settled there.

“Speaking of,” Cartman pushed himself up to a half-sitting position, desiring just a touch more decorum for the encroaching topic, “we really need, if now doesn’t seem like an inappropriate time, to discuss the whole deal we—,”

“I’ve been thinking we should follow the previously set precedent,” Kyle tapped his foot casually, his words flying out quickly, practiced. “Bebe paid fifty bucks for a shitty, blurry, phone pic, so I think the quality, well… in focus, phone pics should be priced the same. I’m not going to budge on my value. I don’t understand it, but I can recognize when there’s a demand, as limited as it is.” His foot stilled. “If I’m going to do this, I’m going to go for broke.”

“Alrighty then.”

“Of course, we’d have to artificially limit the supply of product. We can’t necessarily have Bebe buy one image and then send it to everyone she knows. We’ll have to encrypt the images and bug them so they can’t be screenshot or shared.”

“Damn, can you do that?”

“Of course I can,” Kyle said, pushing himself up on his forearms. “I already did it with the one I sent you. If you want to send it to someone other than me, it’ll corrupt and show up as a bunch of random pixels.”

“How?”

“I had a study group with Kevin Stoley last year, and we exchanged tips and skills.” Kyle vibrated, beaming proudly.

“Lucky bastard,” Cartman muttered. Kyle ignored him.

“Anyway, actual _quality_ stuff we’ll have to make impossible to run copies off of, like what they do with money,” Kyle ran a nimble finger along the threading of the camera bag, “and we’d have to raise the price point.”

“I’ll have to buy a separate memory card,” Cartman said absently.

“Lucky for you,” Kyle thumped his thigh with a cold hand, “I’ll give you until Monday.”

“I can’t believe you’re actually willing to sell—,”

“To model.”

“Yes, that.”

“I’ve put some thought into it.” Kyle shrugged, then jumped to his feet, and quick graceful movement. “Do you want to finish the run with me?”

“Not really.”

“I’m going to take off then. I want to be in the shower before my dad wakes up.” Kyle ruffled the hair on his head, quite roughly in fact, and jogged off. Cartman was left reeling, staring in the direction where he had just disappeared. He kept doing this to him, throwing him off his game. Every time he thought he had finally caught up, Kyle would toss his head back, fiendish and debonair, and laugh, already halfway across the world again.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<+>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Kenny rubbed the side of his head, careful to avoid the painful lump pulsing on the front, but desperate to relieve the throbbing in his skull. Heidi glanced over at him, a look of concern flitting through her eyes. Kenny smiled at her widely, the stretching of his cheeks, the tightening of his muscles to lift the corners of his lips, sent a sharp stab through his head, but he forced himself to look unbothered. He didn’t want to concern his friends. He didn’t want to them to change their minds and take him to the hospital.

He had died in a hospital bed more than enough times already.

Kenny found a bench to sit on, uninspired by their small rally. Three people, two girls he recognized from school but didn’t know the names of and who appeared to be one of their grandmothers, had arrived a few hours ago, but none of them were loud enough or convincing enough to actually make an impact. Wendy didn’t seem to notice; Kenny watched her with exhausted eyes, tired, tired eyes that he was forced to keep open, despite the fact that Stan had been allowed to doze off next to him hours ago.

Wendy stood at the front of the group, a sign held over her head, and a megaphone held to her mouth. “We demand you hear us out!” She cried. She had been making her demands all night, the sun had long since set and was even beginning to rise again; her voice was growing hoarse, and Kenny even wondered if there had even been anyone in the building to begin with, but she continued on, relentless and head strong.

“Are we sure this is even the right place?” Heidi walked up to him, a plastic bag in hand. He hadn’t noticed her wander off, but it seemed she had decided to provide breakfast. He smiled gratefully as she handed him a muffin.

“Wendy seems pretty sure, and I don’t really want to say anything to her.” He peeled the plastic off his muffin, picking at the edge of it thoughtlessly. “I’ll jump in if someone comes out but…” he shrugged.

“Yeah,” she sat next to him and sighed heavily, “I wanted to jump back on the whole activism thing, but it’s really hard being here right now.”

“Oh really?”

She nodded and fiddled with the straps of her bag. “I’ve just been working so hard on my self-reflection and my mental growth after the whole toxic thing with um… with Eric forever ago, but it’s kinda hard not to think that this is how things just are,” she looked at Wendy, who was smacking signs with the neckbeard, “fruitless and unfair.”

“Not always,” Kenny shrugged and bit into his muffin. It was banana nut and dry, but it wasn’t bad. “Sometimes you just have to look harder for what you’re supposed to do.”

“Oh yeah?” She raised an eyebrow at him. “Then what?”

“Do it,” Kenny said, his eyes following a shiny black car as it tried to pull into the parking lot they were currently occupying. He pushed himself up from the bench and slinked over casually, his hands set in his pockets, his back slouched. He stopped at the passenger-side window and lightly rapped on the glass with two knuckles.

The dark window rolled down slowly, revealing a middle-aged man dressed in a dark blue suit sitting behind the steering wheel. The man turned his head to Kenny, pulled down a pair of dark shades, and looked him over silently. Kenny licked his lips and leaned in, resting his arms against the windowsill.

“Good morning, my good dude!” He sang.

“What is all of this?” The man gestured at the sign wavers in front of him, not a single one having yet noticed him.

“Those are my friends. We’d like to speak to whomever is in charge?” Kenny batted his eyes, his pretty blues as he had once been so charmingly told in the ninth grade.

“That’s me.”

“Wonderful!” Kenny let his smile spread all the way up until his cheeks ached.

“Um, kid, do you need a ride to the hospital?” The man gestured to his head. Kenny shook his head enthusiastically, his smile still plastered in place. He took a bite of his muffin, and watched the man carefully as he chewed. The man shifted, looking more uncomfortable by the second.

“See,” Kenny gestured with his muffin, knowing there’d be crumbs left behind in the interior, “we’re not exactly thrilled with your business practices.” Kenny dropped his smile. He glanced towards Wendy, who finally, seemed to have noticed them. He waved her over.

“Not thrilled?” The man laughed. “Are the wings not spicy enough for you or something?”

“I’ve never actually eaten one of your restaurants,” Kenny responded.

“You what—,” Wendy slapped her sign on the hood of the car and shoved her head in over Kenny’s. Kenny flattened himself down as much as he could.

“Your company’s exploitation and philandering of young girls is villainous!” She accused.

“Philandering?” The man dramatically pulled his keys from the ignition and threw open his door. He clambered out of the car and shoved himself up to look at them over the roof of the car. “That’s a bold accusation! I could have you arrested for harassment and slander!”

“Please, my boyfriend’s best friend’s dad is a lawyer,” Wendy scoffed, gracefully taking a step back to look up at him. “ Besides, it’s only natural for someone to come to that conclusion given how your shady business operates.”

“We’re over the table.”

“You hire underage girls, who often don’t have any other options, you drastically underpay your staff, and your uniforms are over sexualized and scandalous!” Wendy propped her hands on her hips and glared up at the man. The man slapped the car roof, dropped down with a thump, and rounded the front of the car.

“Restaurants can’t hire sixteen year olds now?” The popped his jacket open and crossed his arms.

“You’re hardly a restaurant,” Wendy scoffed. “You sell sexuality. Most of your clientele are old, crusty men, who like having easy access to young girls to ogle and in worst cases, touch.”

“We don’t sell sex.” Wendy whipped a flier from her pocket and jabbed it at the man. The image was of a young girl, ambiguously legal, dressed in the tight, skimpy, Raisins orange, posturing with a tray of chicken wings, her lips pursed and her eyes fluttered.

“We demand you do one of two things: Only hire girls over the age of eighteen, or put them in conservative uniforms.”

“Our Raisin girls wear their uniforms with pride.” The man leaned forward, his eyes taking in every inch of Wendy’s body. She recoiled.

“I think you’ve found your answer then.” She spat at his feet. The man grinned.

“You’re right, I think I have.” The man took a step forward, forcing her back. “I’m going to get back in my car, and if you don’t leave the premises in fifteen seconds, I will call the police to take you away for trespassing on private property.” The man straightened with a violent jerk and spun around to face the few others gathered there. “Protest over!”

The man shot them one last smug smirk, his eyes scrunched up condescendingly, and returned to his car. He pulled forward as the women gathered there dispelled. The sign slid from the hood and caught under the tire which crushed it uncaringly. Kenny stared down at the dirtied words, ‘they’re daughters and sisters’.

“Ha!” The neckbeard barked in Wendy’s face. She pushed him back with a sneer and spun on her heel, making sure her long hair smacked him in the face. She went to Stan and shook his shoulder. Stan stirred and stared at her groggily.

“Give me your keys, we’re going home.”

“Did we win?” Stan smiled sleepily.

“We’re going.” Wendy hauled him to his feet. Heidi helped her steady him, then detached, joining Kenny by his side. She followed his gaze, to the sign. She placed a hand on his shoulder. It was a gentle touch, but Kenny could feel, and respected, a hidden strength.

“Come on,” she murmured gently.

“Hold on.” Kenny pulled away and stalked up to the car. He waited until the man closed and locked his door to approach, standing so close that when the man turned their chests crashed together.

“The fuck, kid?”

Kenny rubbed the bottom of his shoe against the shiny black leather of the man’s. “You call your branches and tell them to remember the name McCormick.”

“Oh,” The man’s face darkened, “I will.”

“Good.” Kenny pulled away, his eyes fixed on the man’s back until he disappeared into the building. Heidi came up and took his arm again.

“What was that?” She hissed.

“It’s just something I was supposed to do.”


	7. Inconsistent Chapter Names

“Stan’s going to think something’s wrong if I’m not waiting at his locker.” Kyle fidgeted at his side. Cartman slowed his pace.

“You don’t have first period. He’ll probably be happy if he thinks you’re being normal and sleeping in, or whatever,” Cartman reasoned, craning his head to the side to scan the halls. He had texted Bebe about an hour previously, and they had agreed to meet by the vending machines, but he didn’t see her anywhere. He glanced down at her watch. _She_ had first period, which started in about ten minutes.

“Stan thinks you’ve been blackmailing me into doing something terrible.”

“I’m sure you would prefer if I was,” Cartman grumbled reproachfully. Kyle said nothing to that, proving a truth behind his words. Cartman sighed, “What did you tell him?” Cartman carefully watched his face, focusing especially on his fluttering lashes. Kyle smiled, blessedly, gentle and sly.

“I didn’t tell him anything.”

“Really?” That was surprising. Cartman had been under the impression that they shared everything with each other, that they were sewn together at the hip and shared breaths at the same rhythm and pace.

“Don’t get me wrong, I love Stan. It’s hard not to adore the idiot…” Kyle fiddled with the hem of his sweater, drawing in the side of his cheek to chew upon it.

“I’m sensing a but,” Cartman said simply, eyes back on the hall. What the Hell could Bebe be doing? He threw himself back against one of the vending machines and crossed his arms.

“He’s kind of overbearing, like he thinks I’m going to break if someone breathes on me too hard. I mean, sure, I _get_ that I’ve been sick a few times, and I know it’s just because we’re friends, and he cares about me,” Kyle sighed heavily and dropped his slender frame against the wall. “I don’t want him to misunderstand what we’re doing and blow anything out of proportion.”

“Yeah, that makes sense, I guess.” Across the hall, feminine voices caught his attention. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, and neither of them were Bebe, but they drew him regardless. Two Asians girls stood in front of an open locker, tittering behind their hands, staring and occasionally pointing at Kyle. One of them noticed him staring and jumped. The two girls scampered away, glancing at him over their shoulders.

“I should probably tell him something, though. It’s just hard to think of what to say because he doesn’t exactly like that I’m on speaking terms with you now.”

“What?” Cartman glared at him. “Why the Hell shouldn’t I be allowed to talk to you?” His stomach churned. He knew their relationships had been rocky in the past, but he had been trying so hard to make up for it. Stan was just a bitch anyway, Cartman sneered to himself.

“Talking to you usually leads to decisions I end up regretting,” Kyle grumbled. Cartman’s heart stopped. He knew it wasn’t, but it felt almost something like a confession. He closed his eyes and shook his head clear.

“You’re not going to regret this,” Cartman insisted. Kyle hummed noncommittally, looking away.

“Hey, Bebe,” Kyle said, detaching from the wall. Ohp, Bebe made it, there she was.

“Hi, Kyle,” she sang, grabbing his hands in hers. “You look utterly divine today!”

“Um, thanks,” Kyle ran his hand through his shaggy hair. His fingers snagged on a knot he hadn’t bothered to brush out that morning. Cartman turned his attention to Bebe to avoid letting an endeared smile show on his face.

“Bebe, what took you so long?” He whined. She flicked her unimpressed eyes at him. There was something about her gaze that tended to make one feel small, like she had noticed an ill-concealed zit and was making a mental note of it. Cartman scratched at his cheek, the skin there suddenly itching in a way it hadn’t before.

“I had business to take care of,” she sighed, wistful and forlorn, draping a hand over her forehead. “Anyway, you mentioned a new photo?” She asked, her voice dripping in interest. Her eyes darted to their pockets. Her hands travelled up Kyle’s arms, and she stared at him in eager interest. Kyle glanced at Cartman.

“Um, did we?” Kyle asked.

“I told Bebe about the one we took on Friday.”

“Right,” Kyle pulled his arms out of her grasp. She set her hands on his shoulders. “I’ll have Cartman send it to you, um…” Kyle looked down at his shoes. “But first it’s um…” He hesitated.

“Fifty big ones, Bebe,” Cartman swooped in, sliding himself between the two of them, making sure Kyle was kept firmly behind him. He didn’t care for the way Bebe touched him. He glanced at Kyle over his shoulder. Where had these awkward cold feet come from? He had thought he had made up his mind already.

“Here you go!” Bebe chimed, passing a crisp fifty dollar bill to him. Cartman snatched it quickly and shoved it in his back pocket.

“Bebe, not so openly!” He hissed. She laughed lightly, her blond curls bobbing haughtily.

“Nothing bad will happen to the most enlightened patrons.”

“The what now?” Cartman asked. Bebe answered with a serene and entirely unhelpful smile. Cartman was tempted to stick his tongue out at her, but at this point, he figured it was probably better not to offend her too much.

Something touched his backside. He jumped and whirled around. Kyle looked up at him pointedly, the fifty dollars held in his hand. He folded it carefully and tucked it into his pocket, his eyes not once blinking or leaving Cartman’s own. Something lodged itself firmly in the center of his lungs.

“Eric,” Bebe tapped his shoulder, “I like to think of myself as patient, but in matters of such grave significance, I demand a little more urgency with the carry through.” Cartman wheezed, still tingling from the remnant ghost of Kyle’s touch.

“What?”

“The photo, dumbass.”

Cartman scowled, pulling out his phone. He opened his photos, muttering under his breath words that he was certain Bebe would skin him for. He clicked on the picture and sent it to her. She excitedly pulled out her own phone.

“Is this a joke?” She asked.

“What?”

She turned her phone and shoved it in his face. “This isn’t anything! Did you just send me a fucking virus?”

“Perfect!” Kyle laughed. They both turned to stare at him. Bebe gestured at him in disgruntled confusion. “No, Bebe, it’s not a virus.” He grinned. “I was just testing something. Give me your number, and I’ll send you the actual picture.”

“Okay.” He handed her a pen and a slip of paper. She quickly scribbled out her number and passed it back. “Is that going to happen if I try to share with anyone?”

“Yes.”

“I am one of few chosen sheep.” Kyle paused mid-type and glanced at her. “The exclusivity only makes you more valuable to me,” she breathed. Her phone buzzed, and she squealed happily, hugging the device to her heart.

“Well, I guess that’s um… uh…” Kyle rubbed the back of his neck.

“Can I have you wear something for me?” Bebe leaned into Kyle’s bubble. Kyle took half a step back, his feet shuffling uncertainly.

“Wear what?” Cartman cut in. He threw his arm over Kyle’s shoulder, staring Bebe down. Kyle frowned.

“I made a sweater. I just want you to wear it.” Bebe dropped her backpack to the floor and unzipped it. She produced a pair of black satin slacks and a giant mass of puffy blue yarn. She held the pile of clothes out. Kyle rolled his shoulders free and gingerly took her offering.

“For your fashion portfolio, right?” Kyle picked at the sleeve of his newly obtained sweater. Even folded up the way it was, Cartman was sure that Kyle would be absolutely drowning in the material if he put it on.

“Yes, exactly.”

“Okay well,” Kyle rolled his shoulders back, his feet planted firmly beneath him. “I can do that for you, but I’m going to want you to pay five hundred dollars upfront.”

“Deal.” Bebe unzipped the front pocket of her backpack and pulled out her wallet. “No price is too high a price to pay in a holy pursuit,” she hummed. Kyle stammered unintelligibly, his eyes wide. She quickly counted out twenty-five twenty dollar bills and dramatically held out the wad of cash with a cracking twist of the wrist. Kyle held out his hand, and she firmly pressed the bills into his open palm, her touch lingering a moment longer than necessary.

“Bebe, you’re going to be late,” Cartman pointed at his wrist, miming a watch. She slowly rolled her head towards him, her eyes vapid and dull. She blinked at him once then grinned, toothy and lazy.

“That’s fine. My spirit is filled with peace.” She let her eyes travel over Kyle one last time before she departed, disappearing down the hall. They both stared after her. Cartman’s skin crawled, every interaction with her rubbing him in a worse way than the one before. Kyle looked down at his hand.

“I didn’t think she’d actually agree to that,” he murmured. “I thought I was high-balling her.” Cartman didn’t know what to say to that. Would it be offensive to say that Bebe was just crazy, given that she was buying pictures of Kyle?

The bell rang. Kyle tucked the money carefully into his pocket. He readjusted the folded pile of clothes and tucked them into his backpack. He glanced down the hall, seeing no one since they were the only ones who showed up when they didn’t have class, and shook his head.

“Did you end up getting a spare SD card?” Kyle asked. Cartman nodded quickly, holding up his camera bag as if that proved his point. “Okay, good, I guess.” Kyle stared up at a flickering florescent light, his backpack hugged too tightly to his chest. “We have an hour to take care of this thing for Bebe. Do you really think this whole thing will really be a viable source of revenue?”

“Of course I do, Kyle. Give it like a week.” Kyle glanced at him hesitantly and bit his lip. “Kyle, are you having second thoughts? You seemed pretty sure of yourself in the park.” Kyle wasn’t one to force bravado onto himself, was he?

“Modeling or making some sort of artistic statement is one thing,” Kyle shifted his backpack up, “but Bebe was being kind of… I don’t know, weird?” Cartman cursed Bebe under his breath. He wasn’t going to forgive her if she ended up having opened his eyes to the wonders of Kyle’s ass only to rip the rug out from under him before he could make anything of it.

“She’s just excited about her fashion portfolio thing, or whatever.”

“I guess. That makes sense, I guess.” He didn’t sound even vaguely assured.

“C’mon Kyle, let’s go to an empty classroom or something and quickly get it out of the way. It’ll make you feel better.” He grabbed Kyle’s shoulder, careful to keep his grip firm and still. Kyle blinked tightly. “She’s already paid us, and we can have fun with it.”

“I’m pretty sure,” Kyle rolled his shoulder free and started swaying down the hall in one fluid movement, “we have different ideas of fun.” Cartman hurried to follow him, a heat rising to his affronted chest.

“Not true! We like a lot of the same stuff!”

“I don’t get my kicks from fucking up other people’s lives,” Kyle said pointedly.

“Kyle, I haven’t done anything even _kind_ of bad to anyone since like middle school.” Cartman matched his pace with Kyle’s and gestured emphatically. “I’ve like seriously turned a new leaf and shit! Can’t you just let it go? You said we’d start over fresh!”

Kyle slung his backpack over his shoulder, almost smacking Cartman in the face, he felt the canvas grace his nose, and grabbed the handle to a darkened classroom door. “I lied, obviously.” He threw open the door and slipped inside. “It would be unfair to both of us to pretend our history doesn’t exist,” he called out from the room.

“Aw, Kyle, are you being sentimental?” Cartman sang, despite the pain dripping into his lungs.

“No,” Kyle said, pulling his shirt up over his head. Cartman jumped and slammed the door shut behind him. He pressed his forehead to the wood and panted. He squeezed his eyes shut and gulped. Why did he have to do this to him? Cartman hated him, surely, with every fiber of his haunted being.

Cartman exhaled carefully and set he backpack beside the door. He locked the door and made his way for the windows, careful to keep his eyes averted from the unfurling shadows dancing just at the edge of his vision. He peeked out the windows, pleased to see that they didn’t really face anywhere. He pulled the blinds half-way up and paused, assessing the quality of the light. He held his hand up, rotating it to shift the play of shadows. His hand shook.

“Fuck, this thing is huge.” Heart hammering, he lowered the blinds half an inch before slowly turning to see what Kyle was cursing about.

He had thought his jogging shorts were bad.

Kyle stood there drowning, in a light-blue, loose-knit sweater, indignantly flapping a sleeve paw, his slender legs bare and on display under a hem that cut off at the very edge of his black boxer-briefs. Kyle shoved the end of his sleeve up with his other wool devoured hand. The neck of the sweater slipped oh so delicately from his shoulder, revealing the sharp bones that made him. He had a small mole on his collar bone, and Cartman didn’t know what to do with this newfound information other than file it away and hold onto it until he died.

“Kyle, don’t move.”

“But I need to put on the pants?” Kyle took a step back, toward the desk where he had placed his things.

“In a minute!” Cartman shouted, fumbling with the camera bag. He still managed to remove the camera carefully, to handle it with reverence, despite the fog roiling in his skull. He knew he needed to breathe, but he still wasn’t quite certain he was awake, not that he had the time to figure it out, lest this opportunity chose to flit suddenly away.

He turned the camera on and adjusted the focus, softening it so Kyle’s form was a blur of fire and blue, and pressed the shutter release. Kyle jumped at the sound. He leaned back against the desk, wrapping his arms around his body. Cartman took another and refocused the camera, moving closer. He needed to be so, so very close.

“Cartman, you’re going to waste the memory,” Kyle objected.

“I’m not, turn your head a little to the left and raise your jaw.” Kyle compiled, his eyebrows crinkled. “Kyle, relax. I need you to trust me to know what I’m doing here.”

“Oh, that’s a good one,” Kyle muttered, a strained little grin twisting his lips, “I just need to _trust_ you.” Kyle stretched his neck out long, a subconscious movent meant to pair with the derisive curve of his brow, but it was beautiful. He was so pale and so smooth and free from imperfection, Cartman almost didn’t register the contempt dripping from his words.

“Kyle,” he pleaded in a single desperate breath, “there is no one you can trust like you can trust me.”

“I don’t know what that means.” Kyle pushed himself up from the desk and pulled out a chair. He jumped up onto it and jumped onto the desk, camera clicks frantically following his movements. He propped his hands on his hips and stared Cartman down. “I’m going to grow sick and tired of your convoluted statements really fucking fast!”

“You’re _choosing_ to be confused.” Cartman knelt in front of him and panned his miniature view of him, the only one he could look directly at without turning to stone, up his body. “I need you to place your hands on your chest and slowly stroke them up toward your neck.”

“Why? Why do you want me to do that?”

“Because it’ll be a good shot, _obviously_.” Kyle hesitated, then placed his hands on his chest, stiffly, and didn’t move. His eyes wormed their way under Cartman’s skin, tearing him apart for the words they had wanted to hear, that Cartman didn’t know how to string together. His stomach broiled. “Was I not _explicit_ enough for you? I’m trying to take good pictures for Bebe, that’s it. Do you need me to clarify anything else?”

“No,” Kyle sneered. He slid his hands up slowly, catching the fabric and bringing it up with them. Cartman circled him, His eyes devouring angles and godly inches that he would never document and share, inches that he would keep secret just for himself. He shakily raised the camera, drawing in his bottom lip, as he aligned the shot, rising painfully slowly up his thighs with his gaze.

Kyle dropped.

He wrapped his arm around his bunched up body, muttering unintelligibly.

Cartman stilled, eyes growing wide as Kyle scrambled off the desk, and scooped up his shirt from the floor, flipping it right-side-out. He awkwardly fumbled to put the shirt on beneath the sweater, his limbs catching and tangling in the heaps of wool. He gave up, instead wrapping his arms around his body and curling in on himself.

“Kyle, what are you doing?”

“I’m not feeling it.”

“Not feeling it?” Cartman took a step toward him, a hand reached out to console, though he had no plan of where to place it. Kyle recoiled audibly, freezing him in place.

“I’m not comfortable having you look at my body.”

Cartman choked on the dusty, stagnant air of the room. “Kyle,” he said carefully, “I’m not perving on you or anything.” He was, however, well aware, despite his best efforts, he had, perhaps, ogled him, just a little. “I have a strictly professional and artistic interest in—”

“God, Cartman, I didn’t accuse you of that!” Kyle clenched his jaw so tightly it quivered. “I need you to go.”

“Would that make you feel better?” Cartman took half a step back.

“Yes.”

“Okay, okay, yeah.” Cartman set his camera back in its bag and carefully wrapped it closed. He gathered his backpack made sure all of his things were settled properly, well aware of the waves of discomfort that rolled off Kyle’s being with every second he lingered. He just couldn’t pull himself away from him, not as quickly as he knew he should. He turned for the door, glancing over his shoulder, at Kyle, who trembled in a way that made his stomach curdle. “I’ll see you later?”

“Wait.” Kyle looked up, his shoulders un-bunching. “You’re actually leaving?”

“Yeah,” Cartman shrugged casually. “There’s no point forcing you to do something you’re uncomfortable with. I’ll give you some time to think about it, and if I have to, I’ll go talk to Bebe.”

Kyle was quiet.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<+>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

“So we went all the way up to North Park, and it turns out that the Raisins Headquarters isn’t even _open_ on Fridays.” Stan bit viciously into his disgusting hemp butter sandwich. Kyle, over a carton of juice nodded for him to continue. “Which sucks because it’s all Wendy wants to talk about, how convoluted that is, and what our next plan of attack should be, and I don’t have much to say because I was asleep for most of it, and I want to talk to her about other things like this new board game that’s coming out, but she’s so single-mindedly focused that she can’t even register anything that doesn’t have to do with the failings of the patriarchy right now!”

“Stan, breathe.” Stan took in a breath. Kyle nodded contentedly. “She’ll calm down. Give it like two days, and she’ll have moved onto some other new world-changing cause.”

“I don’t know, man,” Stan rubbed the back of his neck, “she seems pretty torn up about it.”

“Well, it’s not going to help anyone if you’re both stressing out over it.” Kyle pointed out. Stan nodded. It was a good point. It was futile to stress over something they couldn’t do anything about. “You should focus on something else,” Kyle helpfully supplied. Stan agreed more enthusiastically this time. There was definitely a separate cause his attention might actually benefit.

“Where were you this morning?” Stan asked. “I was almost late waiting for you.”

“I meant that you could tell me about that new board game,” Kyle laughed, a crinkled eye kind of laugh.

“Oh!” Stan sat up excitedly. “Okay, so it’s called ‘Archery’, and it’s a tabletop RPG about five different elf factions!” Stan gestured with his hands to represent where the factions had been spaced out on the concept art of the board.

“I like elves,” Kyle hummed distractedly.

“Oh, yeah man!” Stan wiggled excitedly on the too narrow lunch bench. “So, there are five teams, you know, for each of the factions, and the idea is that you want to…” Stan stopped. Kyle was staring near him and nodding absently as if he was listening, but Stan could tell he had checked out almost immediately. His heart fell. He had been legitimately excited about maybe convincing Kyle to play it with him once it came out.

Kyle’s eyes latched onto something over Stan’s shoulder, mulling something over. Kyle tapped his fingers on his chin, and seemingly coming to some sort of a conclusion to his quandary, smiled, fondly. Stan felt a stab of fear in his chest. He twisted around the middle, forcing a screwdriver through the top of his skull to follow Kyle’s gaze, knowing, already, he didn’t want to know.

Cartman, the worst possible answer, approached them.

“Oh, God.”

“Sorry, Stan,” Kyle blinked blankly at him, “did you say something?”

“No, Kyle,” Stan muttered bitterly, “I didn’t say anything.”

“Oh, okay,” Kyle chimed, breezily standing, almost so quickly that Stan wasn’t even really sure if he had registered what he had said. Kyle gayly waved to catch Cartman’s attention, as if he hadn’t already seen them. Stan yanked him down by the front of his shirt.

“Kyle,” he hissed, “the fuck?”

“We’re being nice now.” Kyle shrugged.

“Why?” Stan asked. The bench next to him creaked pitifully, and Stan had to tighten his core to keep from sliding down the bench, toward the scent of old ketchup and artificial cheese. He scrunched his nose, glaring at Cartman through the corner of his eyes.

“Hey guys,” Cartman settled his tray in from of him, popping a cafeteria french fry into his greasy maw. “so, what’re we talking about?” He chewed wetly. Stan winced.

“Stan got a new board game.” Kyle propped his cheek in his palm.

“It hasn’t actually come out yet,” Stan corrected awkwardly.

“Lame,” Cartman crammed another dripping fry in his mouth and continued to speak around it, passing it around with his tongue, “why’re you talking about a stupid board game?”

“It’s not stupid!” Stan slammed his hand on the table, making Cartman jump. He would have grinned in satisfaction if he hadn’t already been launching into his defense, “It’s an epic saga about alliances and rivalries and political intrigue!”

“Wow, politics, exciting,” Cartman drawled dryly. Kyle quickly buried his mouth behind his wrist to hide it, but it didn’t stop Stan from noticing him snicker.

“Kyle,” he whined. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am,” Kyle consoled passively. “Go on, tell us more. I _want_ to hear it, really.”

Stan inhaled excitedly, “Okay, so it’s called ‘Archery’, and it takes place in the enchanted forest of Faefy’rn, smack in the middle of like this huge elf war, where all the factions are vying for control of the World Tree Yggdrasil, and it’s really cool because you can fully customize the different armies, and…” Stan paused, noticing one of the Asian girls break free of her group and start toward the table. Her eyes were locked determinedly on the back of Kyle’s head. Stan’s heart rate increased.

Kyle, noticing his silence, smiled encouragingly. The girl inched up behind him, her face flushed pink. Stan slowly drew in a breath. She tapped Kyle’s shoulder. Kyle calmly turned and looked up at her.

She held her hands in front of her, with a kind of shyness that was clearly more performative than felt, and looked away to speak. “We um… would like to speak to you about your—”

“Not right now.” Kyle shot a glance in Stan’s direction. Stan’s blood clumped up in his ears, coursing deafeningly. Kyle said something to him, gesturing with a roll of his hand like he wanted him to keep going, but Stan felt a million miles away. Kyle didn’t trust him anymore. He knew he didn’t. Kyle already knew what she wanted, it was obvious from the way his eyes pinched up, but he didn’t want him, Stan, his supposed super best friend, to know.

“I saw you this morning with um…” the girl trailed off, staring thoughtfully at Cartman. Stan stared at him as well, his expression far more aghast than hers. Kyle scrambled to his feet, forcing the girl back with the suddenness of his movement.

“No,” Kyle leaned into her space, his teeth clenched tightly, “you didn’t, and you can drop it.” He hovered here, snarling, all of their hearts beating rapidly in his silence. The girl swallowed, and Kyle straightened. He threw himself heavily back onto the bench, making their respective lunches jump, and smiled warmly up at Stan. “Stan, I’m so sorry about that. Please, keep going.”

“Right, um…” Stan crinkled the corner of his paper lunch bag, trying to collect his thoughts, which was difficult to do, what with how lightheaded he suddenly felt. The girl circled the table, her satchel bumping Stan’s back, and sat next to Cartman, immediately whispering in his ear. Stan grit his teeth, took another deep breath, and launched back into his explanation. “So you can fully customize them, even down to the individual units and the elements they can wield. There’s like all these different elements you can choose from, each with their own advantages and disadvantages over each other, which really adds to the strategic element of it. Like say you’re going up against a troupe of fire archers, then you’re going to want like maybe some ice elves, or maybe even—”

“Kyle,” Cartman hummed tensely. Kyle grunted and shot him the kind of look that Stan was used to seeing from him, exasperated and impatient.

“What?”

“I really think we should go… discuss things with her.” Cartman widened his eyes pointedly. A pink shade rose to Kyle’s cheeks. He shoved himself back from the lunch table and carelessly slammed the rest of his lunch, an apple and a bag of chips, into his backpack.

“Fine.” Kyle threw his bag over his shoulder and marched out of the lunchroom. Cartman hefted himself up leisurely and rolled his shoulders, cracking his spine. He waited for the girl to stand, then side by side, they followed after where Kyle had just gone, Cartman already murmuring something to her, his hands gesticulating carefully.

Stan stayed at the table, fixed to the bench. He stared at his lunch, the inside of his mouth icy cold and his jaw tight. He wanted to die.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<+>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

“So, like, you were listening in while we were talking to Bebe, huh?” Cartman held the cafeteria door open for the Asian girl to pass through, she had said her name was Kimiko or something. She nodded in thanks and passed through.

“Yes, which is why we thought I could approach you for um… for his services…” she stared off, down the hall, a pensive look to her. Cartman nodded, letting the door swing shut behind him.

“You understand, _if_ we agree to anything, that we charge, right?”

“Yes, I—”

“Exorbitantly.”

“Right,” she huffed. “I’ve already spoken to the other girls, and we’re prepared to talk price.” Cartman hummed, the distinct pattering of Kyle’s pacing leading him around the corner. Kyle’s head jerked up at the sound of their voices. He whirled on his heel and pressed up chest to chest with Cartman in two swift steps. He didn’t look angry, but he was vibrating.

“You’re not going to say a word.”

“Sure.” Kyle blinked and drew back. Cartman grinned, grabbing Kyle by the elbow to steady him.

“Right, well,” he turned to Kimiko. “What do you want?”

“We want you to do reference modeling for our doujins! Your proportions are perfect for it!” She squealed, clasping her hands excitedly. Kyle winced and pressed a finger to his ear.

“I’m not agreeing to anything right now, but if I were to later,” Kyle crossed his arms over his chest and paced behind her, “I wouldn’t do anything nude.”

“We won’t ask you to!” She insisted. Her eyes held an added, ‘not yet,’ but she seemed to have enough sense not to voice it.

“I wouldn’t let you take photographs.” Kyle stood behind her, his eyes glued to the back of her head. She turned to look at him, but he stepped to the side, out of her line of sight. She swayed, her eyes darting unsteadily. “I can’t trust you to do that.” He glanced at Cartman, just out the corner of his eye, then looked away. Cartman felt his own feet feel a little uneven beneath him.

“Okay,” she nodded.

“I would charge by the hour for my time. I don’t have much of it.”

“I understand that.” She ran her blunt fingers through her hair, her eyes pinched up as she stared down the empty hall, “Um, how much would that be?”

“I don’t know.” Kyle shrugged. “I haven’t agreed to anything, so I haven’t decided.”

“Can I give you my number then, so if you do decide you’ll know how to reach me?” She fiddled with her bag, rifling around for a pen and a piece of paper. Kyle didn’t say anything, only watched her as she pressed the paper to the locker beside her to jot down the digits. His eyes were cold, looking more through her than at her. Cartman inched closer to him, subconsciously, itching, as always, to know what was racing through his enigmatic mind.

Kimiko turned toward them with an awkward, shaky smile. She held out the little slip with both hands. Kyle’s eyes flicked down at it. He made no motion to grab it, gave barely any indication that he registered what he was looking at.

“I’ll find you,” he dismissed. Her shoulders drooped. Kyle brushed past her and left.

Cartman was left alone with the girl, not really sure what he was supposed to say to her. He settled for gracelessly patting her shoulder. She pulled back. Cartman sighed. “I’ll take the number and pass it on to him later. He had kind of… a weird morning.” He didn’t wait for an answer, just took the paper from her, and stepped around her, intent on finding Kyle before he managed to stow himself away for the rest of the day.

Kyle, he soon found, wasn’t going anywhere, he couldn’t. He was cornered and trapped against one of the walls by Craig Tucker, that chollo hatted asshole. Kyle’s foot bounced rapidly, and his eyes darted around the hall. He locked eyes with Cartman.

“I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt,” Craig started, in that flat tone of his, “and assume Marsh never passed along the message.”

“What message?” Kyle asked, pressing himself further against the wall.

“Stay the fuck away from Bebe.”

Cartman grabbed Craig’s shoulder. Craig punched him in the nose. “Ow! What the fuck, Tucker!”

“You grabbed me.”

“You’re threatening my friend.” Cartman winced, clutching his nose. It didn’t feel broken, but he knew it was going to bruise.

“I’m not threatening him.” Craig looked Kyle up and down disapprovingly. “I’m just warning him to leave Clyde’s girlfriend alone.”

“I didn’t do anything with Bebe.” Kyle spat.

“Don’t lie to me, Broflovski.” Craig cracked his knuckles. “If I see you talking to her again, I will take care of it.”

“She’s the one that talks to me.” Kyle crossed his arms, more bold now that he wasn’t alone. “So maybe you should talk to _her_ instead.”

“Don’t test me, asshole.” Craig pulled back, flipped them off, and strode toward the cafeteria.

“Wow, what a bitch,” Cartman grumbled, his nose throbbing. Kyle looked at him. His eyes widened. He grabbed Cartman’s elbow, so delicately.

“Come on, let’s go to the nurse.”

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<+>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

“Wendy! Wendy I need to talk to you!” Stan threw himself at her lunch table, slamming his palms painfully against the metal surface. He grimaced, pushed himself up, slipped, and tipped one of the girls’s milk cartons over. Nicole jumped up from the bench before the milk could stain her jeans. Heidi squeaked, not having jumped up soon enough. Stan frantically snatched a handful of napkins from someone’s outstretched hand and dabbed at the quickly growing puddle.

Wendy sighed and tipped the milk carton upright. She took the napkins from Stan and dabbed up the milk more efficiently. She mushed the dripping napkins in the empty carton and folded it up neatly. “Heidi,” she said, “if you remember my combo, I have a spare pair of jeans in my locker, you can borrow them.”

“Thanks, Wendy.” Heidi rose shakily from the bench, Nicole gently guiding her to her feet, and left, leaving a light trail of white droplets behind.

Wendy looked up at Stan, silent. He pulled at his collar, feeling hot.

“Sorry.”

“Stan, what’s going on?”

“It’s Kyle,” Stan glanced around the table, at Wendy’s friends, who were pretending terribly to not be listening, except for Bebe. Bebe sat with rapt attention, her eyes glistening at the mention of Kyle’s name. He didn’t have time to dissect that. “Babe, can we talk in private? It’s really important.”

“Stan, you look like you’re about to hyperventilate.” Wendy slowly pushed herself up, her dark eyes etched in concern.

“Yeah, Wendy, I’m really struggling here.”

“Okay, hold on a moment.” Wendy calmly gathered her lunch, snapped the lid closed on her salad, refastened the resealable bag of carrots, and tightened the lid on a bottle of locally sourced unsweetened tea. “Take a deep breath, Stan. Not breathing is just as bad as hyperventilating.”

Stan gasped. Wendy bid her friends a pleasant afternoon, grabbed his hand, and led him out into the hall. Stan followed numbly. He forced himself to continue breathing, his lungs shaking and fighting against him. Wendy’s gentle touch grounded him.

Once they were in the hall, she settled them next to the vending machines. There was an underclassman boy knelt there, arm stuck up the machine, fishing for something. Stan watched him numbly, taking the moment to gather his thoughts. He didn’t know if there was a tactful say what he needed. The younger boy emerged with his potato chip bounty, and suddenly Stan’s thoughts dissipated.

“Stan, are you okay?” Wendy placed her hand on his chest.

“They’re fucking!”

“What?”

“Kyle and goddamned Cartman, they’re fucking! I don’t know what he’s lording over Kyle, but it has to be _bad_ for him to actually— he’s clearly being coerced, and it makes my blood burn!” Stan blubbered, his eyes welling up. “And he doesn’t want me to know, and I’m going to kick Cartman’s fucking ass, I don’t care if we agreed to be pacifists!”

“Woah, Stan, slow down.” Wendy soothed. “Where is this coming from?”

“We were sitting at lunch, like normal, and Kyle saw Cartman, and he just started to fucking tune me out, and he looked like he was happy to see him or something, and he waved him over, and he started laughing at something he said and and,” Stan panted.

“That’s okay, we were already pretty sure they were dating, right? That’s normal.”

“No, Wendy, I was hoping they weren’t! And that’s not even the bad part!” Stan threw his hands over his head. “Remember how I didn’t see Kyle this morning?”

“Yeah?”

“He was with Cartman.” Stan grabbed his arm and squeezed it, readying himself before he tipped over. “One of the Asian girls came over to our lunch table and started talking to Kyle about it. She saw them doing— doing _something_ , and you should have seen the way Kyle started freaking out about it, and Cartman’s smug little, self-satisfied, stupid, ugly face, I want to kick his teeth in so fucking much!”

“Stan, calm down.”

“W-wendy!” he spluttered.

“Kyle is capable of making his own choices.”

“Kyle would never _choose_ to fuck Eric fucking goddamned Cartman!” Stan hissed. Wendy raised her eyebrow at him, ‘Are you sure?’ it asked. Stan bristled, “It’s disgusting!” He stamped.

“What’s disgusting?” Kenny sidled up, the cafeteria door swinging shut behind him, his eyes gleaming with excited interest, forever a gossip at heart. Stan rounded on him.

“Kyle’s fucking Cartman!”

“Not cool,” Kenny pouted.

“I know!”

“If he wanted to get off, he could have just asked me. There’s no need to resort to sleeping with Cartman.” Kenny shook his head, shoulders drooped with disappointment. “I guess I should have figured Kyle would be the hate-fuck type of guy. What a shame, though.”

“Kenny, you’re missing the point here.”

“Stan, you seriously,” Wendy grabbed his elbow, leading him to sit on the floor, “need to calm down.”

“He’s asexual though. We need to do something about this. I know my friend, and I know he doesn’t want anything to do with this.” Wendy sat sown next to him, rubbing circles down his arms and up his back. Stan tensed further, refusing to calm down when he knew his best friend was suffering just out of his protective grasp.

“Hiyah fellas!” sang the singsong tones of Leopold Stotch, known more commonly as Butters, doing nothing to diffuse the tension in the air. He skipped out from one of the classrooms, his blue eyes eagerly latching onto them. “How are you?” Butters swayed to a stop in front of them, his baby blue sneakers squeaking on the linoleum.

Stan stared up at him, feeling the bags under his eyes dragging him down, down, down. “Fucking terrible,” he said.

“Well, that’s no way to be,” Butters pouted, playing subconsciously with his blond hair. He had grown out his childhood mohawk tuft, and usually wore it swept to one side, but today he had apparently decided to braid it.

“Kyle’s sleeping with Cartman,” Kenny helpfully supplied. Stan prayed for the Earth to swallow him whole, well aware how dangerous of a practice that could actually be. Wendy paused in her soothing ministrations, carefully watching Stan for his reaction. Stan ground his teeth.

Butters gagged. “That’s awful!

“I know,” Stan buried his face in his hands. “Just the thought of anyone doing anything with Cartman is nauseating.”

“Huh?” Butters shook his head, “What’re you talking about?”

“What are _you_ talking about?” Stan’s eyebrows scrunched.

“I was talking about Kyle.”

“What, _you_ have a problem with _Kyle?”_ Stan scrambled to his feet, his limbs tangling up and tipping him forward. He caught himself and glared at Butters. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

“Yeah, he’s smelly!” Butters petulantly stamped his foot.

The door to the girls’ bathroom opened, and out emerged Heidi Turner, green pants folded in her arms and a bright smile on her face. She noticed the four of them gathered in a tense semi circle and started toward them. “What’s going on out here?” She asked cheerily.

“Nothing,” they all chimed in unison, even Butters seemed to have enough sense not to mention either Kyle or Cartman in front of her.

“We were griping about the ridiculous project in History,” Kenny amended, approaching her with a personable grin. “Who assigns that much this early in the year anyway?”

“Stan,” Wendy took his arm and popped up on her toes to whisper in his ear, “you need to actually talk to Kyle about this.”

“I know, Wendy. I’m trying.”


End file.
